Monday, Wednesday, Friday
by Violescent
Summary: Sherlock AU: Sherlock Holmes is a brilliant scientist with Asperger's syndrome, recovering from an unsuccessful suicide attempt; the state makes him undergo compulsory therapy, carried out by the kind, yet very lonely Doctor John H. Watson. Johnlock. Rating may change.
1. The Infamous Patient

_The point of fiction set in alternate universes are to show that no matter what setting or circumstance, these two people will always find each other. I will find you. Every me loves every you. - Unknown.  
_

* * *

**Chapter 1: The Infamous Patient**

* * *

"Fine, give me the file."

Stamford smiled with glee at his co-worker John, passing him a grey folder with the patient's information. The other man took it, and having placed it on his desk, took a sip of his cool tea.

"So, why are you so eager to get rid of this guy?"

"He already changed 3 psychiatrists. That's in two weeks. I've got enough difficult patients as it is. Besides, aren't complete loonies your area?"

"Oh, please stop with the flattery." John sardonically retorted, opening the file and skimming through it.

They sat in the small office of Doctor John H. Watson, with walls as white as his coat, a small window to the hospital's courtyard with beige binds, a desk and a daybed by the wall. Few chairs were placed in the room, made of the same fine oak as the desk, uncluttered and shimmering clean. The decoration's consisted of some kind of fern in the corner, an impressionist painting and a few pillows the patients would so often fondle while speaking.

"Asperger's. Cocaine addiction. Two suicide attempts in one year." Stamford listed as John's grey eyes studied the paper.

"The Nobel Prize in Physics?" John raised his brows as he read the whole of a man's life printed onto a piece of thin paper.

"Yeah, apparently, he's brilliant. And rich. His brother works for the government. I heard he slips a few quid into the pocked of whoever decides to take on the therapy of his little brother, but even that's not enough."

"I don't give a damn about the pay. If I did, I sure as hell wouldn't be working here." John rubbed his tired face. "He's not going to come to my office, I assume?"

"Yeah, although the ride is paid for." Stamford cleared his throat. "Look, John, if you don't want-"

"I don't mind, Stamford, really."

"You're a real friend, John."

"Say hi to your wife and kids for me." John gave him a smile and bid him farewell, before returning to filling out the papers stacked on his desk. It seemed that no matter how many he completed, the pile remained just the same.

_God, I hate bureaucracy._

As the clock chimed the hour of work's end, John packed up his briefcase and put on his faded dark jacket, turning off the lights to his tiny office. As darkness consumed the room, John sighed deeply, giving his workspace one last look. He hated going home. No one was waiting for him there.

Doctor Watson rented a small flat quite far from the centre of London – it was cramped, slightly damp and the neighbours were noisy - but it was the best he could afford on one psychiatrist's salary. As he walked through the door, having spent ages in the Tube, he neatly hung his jacket on the coat rack and went for the kitchen to make himself a cup of his favourite tea. John was a short, well-built man of 42, with greying blonde hair and large ears; he had a kind, likeable face, and a pair of warm, blue-grey eyes. His nose was pointy, lips thin; he had a sincere, hearty smile.

He did not smile often.

John became a physiatrist for the same reason most people get into medicine – to help others. It was no secret for him even back then, that doctors had a twisted sense of humour. It was a kind of mechanism to cope with all the stress this kind of job entailed. So when Stamford offered to let a football game to decide which one of them takes the infamous patient, John just went with it. Part of him wanted to lose, because he knew that his work mate had enough problems in the family now – John had been deliberately letting him take the lighter cases while leaving the heavier ones for himself. They worked mostly with court mandated therapy and compulsory treatment – in short, their patients did not attend the sessions by choice.

In last week's game between _Manchester United_ and _Arsenal_, the final score was 1 : 0. And so, John had taken the file of the man named Sherlock Holmes. . John had worked with criminals and psychopaths of all shapes and sizes, and the fact that three people had fled from the job he took on had very little impact on his determination.

He turned on the television, and with the voices of the actors of _Downtown Abbey_ in the background, began readying himself for tomorrow's visit. The previous few colleagues of John had left a few recent notes, all of which described the patient as unwilling to talk, among other things. John, however, immediately noted that there must have been a personal reason to dislike the patient so greatly – but he had no idea what it could be. They were trained professionals, after all. John had been yelled at, threatened and cried on more than he bothered to remember. What could have been so special about this guy?

He went to bed early, as he usually did, setting his alarm clock to 6 am. He planned on going for a jog in the morning, taking a shower, filling out a few papers at work, and then heading outside of London for the first visit to Mr Holmes.

* * *

The patient was currently residing in his family manor, a massive building that had John gaping as he climbed out of the car. It was old, beautiful, with a large garden at the front. A personal driver picked John up from the hospital and drove him here, making the doctor feel even poorer as he usually did.

He rang the doorbell and was almost immediately greeted by a young maid with long, blonde hair.

"Hello. I'm Doctor Watson, here to see Mr Sherlock Holmes." he politely said, and the maid guided him towards a large lobby in which a tall, balding man with a large nose greeted him with a brittle smile.

"Mycroft Holmes." he introduced himself.

"John Watson."

The man motioned towards a sofa on which they both briefly sat on.

"I appreciate you taking up to carry out the therapy for my brother. I've heard many good things of you, doctor."

John's eyes narrowed slightly.

"You mostly specialise in difficult cases. Rufus Garside, the serial killer, was examined by you, was he not?"

_How did this guy dug up this information? That happened more than seven years ago._

"Yes, he was."

"You've got nerves of steel, and I think you'll need them." He smiled again, and something about his grin rubbed John the wrong way. "My brother is a very unique man, if I dare say so. If you decide to help him, perhaps I can ease your way-"

"I don't need your money, thank you. I get paid each month to do this job, and I will do it."

"Ah, but you haven't met him yet."

John gave him a serious, yet somehow sassy look.

"I'm not easy to intimidate."

The room in which his patient waited was on the east wing of the manor; the maid led John to the door and smiled with some kind of hidden apology before letting him in.

As John stepped inside, a cloud of smoke surrounded him like fog in a damp swamp. The room was swimming in aroma of a thousand cigarettes, filled with mountains of clutter, like a treasure room from a child's novel. The curtains were drawn, and everything seemed grey in the half-light, clouds of dust dancing in the air. John advanced to the centre, where, in the middle of the room was an antique looking sofa of dark tapestry, ornamented with golden lily motives. A man sat on it, breathing out thick smoke into the air, cigarette gracefully lying between his long bony fingers.

He was tall and lean, lazily sprawled on the sofa, all knees and elbows; his hair was dark curly and unruly, his facial bone structure exceptionally angular, cheekbones sharp, and lips thick. He was dressed in a thin royal blue dressing gown over black pyjamas; his large bare feet were stretched in front of him on the floor, crossed at the ankles. He had dark bags underneath his eyes, a more than week old light stubble that made him look scruffy. His gown had a few stains and a cigarette burn mark on the sleeve. There was a cup with murky water in which some cigarette butts were tossed into – a makeshift ashtray.

He stared into space with his blue cold eyes with a look of utter apathy.

"Good day, I am Doctor John Watson; I'll be treating you for the next three months."

The man glared at him with bitterness. His face kept still, eyes followed John as he dragged a chair in front of the sofa and sat down.

"I'll come every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, for two academic hours." he explained as he placed the file, his notes and a pen of the nearby table and leaned forwards, clasping his hands together.

The man in front of him smirked with arrogance, and started to speak, in deep, baritone voice:

"Single. Straight. You live alone and have no close friends; you're pedantic, so much that you carry a small bottle of shoe polish and sponge to work. You work out regularly, and out of habit, when you're not watching pornography online. You're poor, but refuse to get a flatmate; work has your drained by the end of the day, which is probably why you haven't been on a date in a long while. You like difficult cases, such as mine, because you're compensating for the personal life you do not have." he slowed down by the end, and grimaced at John's shocked expression. "Your hairdresser is on vacation and you just had lunch at a fast food joint, because you were running late, all that paperwork at the office took you a long time, did it not?"

"That's…"

"Accurate, shocking, unbelievable?" Sherlock offered.

"I was going to say brilliant. How did you know all this?" John did not hide his honest surprise.

The dark haired man smirked smugly, pleased that John had asked.

"Well, the way you looked at the maid, who wasn't at all physically attractive tells me that you are both straight and single – furthermore, you've got an unshaved patch of your chin that a girlfriend or anyone comfortable enough with you would have pointed out by now, seeing as it is four in the afternoon. It has been raining around the time you had eaten lunch, but your shoes are clean – they've been polished sometime before you arrived here but after you left home. You could have gone back to your flat, but seeing you are poor, it is unlikely you can afford a flat close to the centre of London where you work, so you must have cleaned them at work."

"Your hair has the cut of a short style but it has grown out – a pedantic man like you is not likely to put off an appointment to your hairdresser, they're on vacation, then. A bit of a straw wrapper fell out of your bag when you pulled out my file – again, as a tidy man you don't keep rubbish around, so it must have gotten there recently – these type of wrappers are specific to fast food restaurants. Now, since you take care of your body, that sort of food must have been used as a last resort – running late, need a quick bite."

"How could you possibly know I work out?"

"Like everything else, I observe. You're in your forties; a well-built body like yours requires some work at this age."

"Thank you."

"No, that's-" Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows. Clearly, he did not mean to give John a compliment. The confusion was gone in a second, as he continued to explain:

"I know you came here willingly, even though you must have heard about me from your colleagues. You like challenges, then. Any man too immersed into his work either has no personal life, or highly dislikes it."

"What about the pornography, then?"

"You're a single male, of course you watch pornography."

John laughed. The wrinkle on Sherlock's forehead deepened.

"How'd you know I was poor?"

"You're a psychiatrist, working in a government sector." he scoffed. "But even without that piece of information – all of your clothes are ironed and perfectly clean, but not new; the way you look around in the manor tells me that you don't usually go to places like these. Your briefcase is second-hand." before John inquired, he added: "the previous owner was much more careless, there's a bruise that you tried to mend."

John smiled, licking his lips.

"That… was extraordinary."

Sherlock's eyes betrayed a hint of surprise, but it quickly disappeared as he sneered:

"I can tell all of this just by looking at you. Do you really think you're going to reveal something revolutionary about myself in all those tedious hours of your so-called therapy, Mr Watson?"

"Just John, please." the doctor gave him a warm smile that he usually would use with difficult patients when they were trying to demean his work. "And I'm not here to unveil something about you – all I am here for is to help you."

Sherlock let out a mocking snort. "What, are you going to ask me about my mother?"

John shook his head. "Not unless you want me to."

The patient eyed him as John wrote something down in his notebook.

"Do you always notice all these details about the people around you?"

Holmes did not reply, but the look on his face said that John had asked something too obvious to even need an answer.

"That's really interesting." John said as he scribbled down _makes deductions based on people's appearance, disregarding how it may affect them_.

"You think so?"

"Well, Mr Holmes, I work mostly with murderers and psychopaths, so whatever you've got to talk about is a most welcome change."

The dark haired man thought on it before he replied:

"I've got nothing to talk about."

Silence surrounded them as John continued to write and Sherlock stared at him, as though trying to burn him with his eyes and get him to leave.

"At this point, it's important that we talk, but it doesn't have to be anything essential. We could talk about the weather, if you'd like."

"Dull." Sherlock muttered.

"Or you could tell me how you got the others to leave?" John suggested.

"No."

_So, unwilling to speak about anything concerning himself, just like the file said._

"Can you guess which fast food joint I ate in?"

"I never guess."

"You can't tell?"

Sherlock scoffed again, but took his smart phone out and after a few minutes replied. "McDonalds."

"Can you tell what I ordered?"

"If that's how you plan on tricking me into talking, it's not going to work. I have no interest in speaking with you."

He lit another cigarette and inhaled deeply, closing his eyes for a brief second. John continued to watch him in silence. Sherlock sighed deeply. "Chicken."

John smiled, his thin lips letting out a silent _amazing_.

"Can you tell me about your work?"

"It's all in the file."

The maid walked in, asking if either man wanted some tea. Sherlock ignored her completely, John asked for a cup, no sugar or milk.

When she disappeared again, John said:

"Time would go by faster if we talked. I'm going to sit here for the one and a half hour anyway, three times a week, even if you won't say a word, Mr Holmes."

No answer.

"You've got quite a lot of things in this room. Is there a chance one could find a chess board somewhere?"

"Is playing chess a part of the therapy?"

"It beats sitting around in silence, does it not?"

John wanted to get his patient out of the apathetic mood - a part of his work had nothing to do with words either way – he needed to observe the patient. As the maid brought John's tea, he asked for a board, as soon they were playing against each other: John played Black and Sherlock – White.

The man was a thinker – John could practically see his brain work like a well-oiled mechanism as he made his moves, very eager to win against his opponent. He was leaning in now – a sign of a captured attention. Sherlock was fast to decide on his strategy, and he won fairly quickly against John, although in retrospect the doctor knew the win was his.

"You've made a lot of stupid mistakes." Sherlock assessed.

"Mhm, I suppose I did." John smiled, putting the pieces back into their compartments. "I don't play often."

"Neither do I."

John packed his things. "That's it for today. It's my first visit, so I'm not going to annoy you for the full time. I will see you on Friday, Mr Holmes?"

The patient stared at the cigarette in his hand, the apathetic look once again filling his eyes. He said nothing.

As John walked through the hall towards the exit, Mycroft stopped to inquire about the session.

"I'm not allowed to discuss the details, that's between Sherlock and I. I will return on Friday. Good day, Mr Holmes." John said as he passed by swinging his briefcase in his left hand, leaving Mycroft more than a little surprised.

* * *

**Author's note: **Please leave a review and tell me what you think.

Also, if someone happens to know whom the quote belongs to, PM me, and I will gladly add the source.


	2. Piqued

**Chapter 2: Piqued**

* * *

John pressed the button on the tin can and sprayed the thick white shaving foam in him palm, then spread it over his grey stubble, looking himself in the eye in the mirror in front. The light in the bathroom was so bright it reminded him of an operating room. John took the cartridge razor from its case, and ran it across his puffed cheek; as he washed down the excess foam under the running water and then lift up his eyes to the mirror again, a curious thought crossed his mind.

_I'm really trying not to miss a spot._

It was Friday. For anyone else John knew, that was good news.

For him – it meant he had two blank days ahead, with nothing but books, crap telly, maybe a pint or two in the pub with his co-workers, all complaining about wife's, kids, and in-laws. Now, it also meant going all the way out of London, an hour long car ride, to visit a new patient.

There was a good side to this – John got paid the same amount of pounds each month, so technically, when he sat at the back of Holmes family driver's car and played poker online on his phone it was during work hours, and therefore he was paid to do it.

He stepped into the morning shower, letting the water pour down his face and wash away any remains of the shaving foam. John's muscles were slightly tense from the morning workout, especially abdominal – fighting the battle with the beer belly has become harder and harder.

The doctor got out of the shower, and still naked, walked towards his bedroom to change for the day. He had another new patient this morning - Margaret Pelham, who had murdered her husband but claims she is psychologically ill. Jail or mental hospital? It was John's responsibility to determine the rest of the woman's life.

He sighed as he fished out white boxers from the underwear drawer, oddly certain that a long and hard day awaited him.

* * *

He arrived at the manor half-asleep, having fought drowsiness during the whole ride. The whole day has been terrible for John. First, his sister called and invited him for a dinner he could not get out of (her flat warming – he was too British too be able to say no), then, he had to call in that murderer for at least two additional sessions, his coffee was awful, and it was Friday. And his head was exploding.

"Mr Holmes junior is on one of his… ecstatic moods." The maid said, in half-hushed voice, after she had let him in.

"That's good then." John replied.

"No… he's… he's a bit scary when he's that way."

"Thank you for the warning." John nodded. He pushed the handle down, and stepped inside.

Feathers.

John blinked rapidly.

_Feathers?_

Like thick, soft snow, they covered the clutter, the furniture, the floor; as he opened the door, a gust of wind lift some up from the ground – they gracefully fluttered, caught in its grasp, and landed gently again, fluffy little things of white.

"Ah, it's you!"

An object came flying towards John – long, metallic, thin – and it approached the doctor's face his heart made a jump inside his chest. He caught it, by the handle, eyes wide with surprise of the suddenness of it all, taking a few seconds to recover from the shock before looking at the thing he had caught and then back at the man who had tossed it.

"You're holding it wrong!" Sherlock said, swinging in his hand a rapier exactly like the one John had just caught. He looked even dirtier and scruffier than the last time John had seen him – only now, a maniacal light glistened in his gaze.

"I… I'm what?" John stuttered, his previous drowse nowhere to be found.

"Oh for God's sake, close the door and come try to stab me!"

Perplexed, the doctor made his way into the room.

"Uh…" he watched his patient walk in semi-circle around him, the pointy end of his rapier dangerously close to John's new jumper. "Uhm, what are you doing?"

"We, John. Fencing!" He beamed.

"Mr Holmes…"

"Just Sherlock, now, guard yourself!"

John jumped back, gasping. "I don't know how to fence!"

"Well, neither do I, but how difficult can it be?"

"Are these… real?" John ran his fingers against the cold blade, his eyes not once letting the madman out of his gaze.

"They're antiques, Mycroft got them as a gift, but I suppose they're pretty sharp, best not touch them."

He attacked again; panicking, John swung the rapier and countered the attack, bewildered.

"_Riposte_, John!"

"What?"

"Too slow!" another attack this time from the side – John managed to evade it by jumping to the side.

"Mr H- Sherlock!" John exclaimed, his heart racing.

"Ah, this is fun! Now come on, attack me!" He took a few steps back, motioning John to take offensive.

Completely baffled, the doctor walked forwards, weapon in hand.

"Uhm…"he looked Sherlock in the eyes; the man appeared to be absolutely crazy. "Can we please put the weapons down?"

"Oh don't be dull."

John half-heartedly swung his rapier somewhere to the left of Sherlock – the man jumped and countered the attack, hitting John's weapon with such force that it flew right out of the doctor's hand.

"For the love of- hold onto your weapon!" Sherlock yelled energetically, picking up the fallen rapier and tossing it to John again, who still hadn't recovered from the initial shock.

He caught it – only barely – and extended his palm as a plea to stop. "Wait, alright?" and as the patient showed no signs of another sudden attack, John added: "We might hurt ourselves!"

Sherlock scoffed.

"Not a very big problem for someone like me, seeing as if I was successful I'd already be dead." he tossed the rapier on the ground and walked towards the sofa, onto which he dramatically flopped on. "Is that what you want to do, have me explain how and why I did it?"

John followed him and sat on the chair, ready to calm the man down, but Sherlock continued to speak:

"I did not want to make a mess, so wrist cutting was out of the question. All that blood – tedious. Hanging myself seemed like an overall complicated procedure – onto what would I have tied the rope? I knew however, what to consume – I have access to drug dealers, after all. I chose a good time, when I knew someone would find me soon – nothing as upsetting as an exploded corpse, because they tend to do that, if left to rot for a few days, you know. Anyway, they found me too _soon_. Hence, were sitting here now, and you're a terrible fencer John, but I don't like fencing alone. I had a mannequin, but Mycroft didn't let me keep it." His face was blank, but his hands were dancing in the air as he talked, a sort of hyper-activeness still present in his behaviour.

John encouraged him to continue.

"As to why – well, why not? Everyone goes about their petty little lives" he demonstrated by pretending his two fingers were miniature legs, and had them stride along the couch cushion "but no one can even tell why – one tedious day after another, it's all so boring, so boring."

He brought his naked feet up onto the couch and watched his toes curl and uncurl, as though unable to keep still.

"Well, what about your work, is that also boring?"

He did not reply.

"I looked you up online yesterday during lunch. Read your articles." John said, trying to dial the conversation down by letting the patient talk about something he's passionate about.

"Did you understand them?" Sherlock asked, although the tone of his voice clearly suggested he assumed John did not.

"Well, I'm not a scientist-"

"Evidently."

"-but I looked up the way they were received by your colleagues. You're respected in your field." John watched carefully for any changes in the patient's face. And there it was – a slight hint of dismay.

"So, what exactly are _muons_? You've written quite a few papers on their acceleration and time dilation observed in their lifetime experiments." the doctor asked.

"I don't think you are equipped with the knowledge to have this sort of discussion with me."

John smiled to himself at the patient's arrogance. He was charming, in a way. As charming as a man that hadn't taken a shower in weeks could be.

"Do you have your friends visiting you sometimes? It might be good for you." John suggested.

"I've no friends."

The doctor noticed Sherlock's gaze drifting towards his upper body.

"You've bought a new jumper." the dark haired man stated.

"Yes, I took your advice."

"I never advised you to buy new clothes."

"Well, I took the hint anyway."

"It's hideous."

John chuckled. "Thanks."

The blonde man could feel the patient watching John just as attentively John watched him. Is that why other psychiatrists disliked him? It must be. It felt like, as he examined Sherlock, Sherlock examined him. It would make many people uncomfortable – his piercing, cold gaze, his crude remarks, and disregard to other people's feelings.

"Are we going to play chess again?" the patient asked.

He read early entries in Sherlock's file beforehand. He had some questions – provided that the man would answer them.

Sherlock was diagnosed with Asperger's syndrome at early age. The psychologist described the 7 year-old Sherlock as impatient, insensitive, inconsiderate, and indifferent with other people.

Asperger's syndrome was a developmental disorder in the Autism spectrum that affected a person's ability to socialize and communicate effectively with others. Children with Asperger's syndrome typically exhibited social awkwardness and an all-absorbing interest in specific topics.

John imagined the boy Sherlock being described as such. What else was he like? He must have been different as a kid, all people are. Whatever coldness Sherlock had now, he gained through his years. So, the seven year old, he must have been warmer. John also knew that even without feeling empathy for others, one could still feel sad themselves.

"Do you have fond memories of your childhood?"

The patient rolled his eyes.

"A yes/no answer will suffice." John assured him.

"No."

"You won't elaborate, I assume?"

"No."

"Can you tell me about your relationship to your brother, Mycroft?"

That struck a chord. The dark man's face shaped in an array of different emotions for a heartbeat – then, it was blank again. John caught a glimpse of loathing, irritation, even sadness. But the answer was still a firm 'No'.

"You don't normally live here, do you?"

"I used to rent a flat in London. Then, I could no longer afford the rent when I stopped working."

"Is this house you grew up in?"

"Yes."

"Is this your old room?"

"No. Let's play chess."

"Okay." John said.

Sherlock chose to play White again. As they put the pieces in their rightful positions, John noted the change in his patient's behaviour. Even though a minute ago he seemed hyper and unable to keep still, as the game began, he was completely focused. Which was why, after thirty minutes, it was over with Sherlock silently and slowly uttering:

"Checkmate."

John bit his lip, looking at the board. He did not see that coming. Sherlock had sacrificed his queen as a diversion and John took the bait, blocking his king's escape path in the process.

Holmes sat back in his chair and smirked.

"Nicely done." John assessed.

"Let's play another one."

John shook his head. "We both know who'll win."

"Yes, me." Sherlock's eyes stared at the board as he caressed the figure of the bishop with the tip of his finger, making it wobble from side to side. "I would still like to play another."

"Yes, okay." John agreed.

It was not just about the winning for him, then, John thought as he watched the man set up the pieces. It's about occupying himself. Was it fencing, or chess, or deducing things about John's personal life – anything to keep himself from becoming bored.

* * *

"Is it not time for you to leave?" Sherlock asked, looking at his phone, after he had beat John once more.

"Mhm, it seems to be." John stood up, searching for something in his briefcase. "Here is my card."

"What for?"

"It has my number on it. If you feel like you need to talk about something, feel free to call or text me, whichever you prefer."

"Why would I possibly want that?"

"Maybe you will feel more comfortable that way."

"I'm not _uncomfortable_, I just think it's pointless."

"Do you think you can beat me at _Words with Friends_?"

He blinked. "Obviously."

The doctor raised his brows.

Holmes extended his palm but not his arm – John had to walk over and place it in his hand. Sherlock looked at the card briefly, and said, in a slightly lower voice: "Are you really that pathetic that you have nothing better to do, than play a stupid game with your clients?"

"My username is _classicwatson." _John smiled. "See you on Monday, Mr Holmes."

He left the manor feeling like they've made progress.

John knew he will have to call Mycroft and tell him that Sherlock was very likely to try to hurt himself again. The maniacal behaviour, turning suddenly into a complete apathy – that was a big warning. The doctor had many suicidal patients in his time. _Our bread and butter_, Stamford used to joke. _Well, that and murderers_. But somehow, Sherlock was unlike anyone else John had even treated.

He sat in the cab, feeling slightly like he did the first few months of his career. When a difficult case could touch him on an emotional level, and leave him thinking and worrying over a patient even when the work hours had passed. Surely, he had grown out of it – you either learn to distance yourself or grow mad with the overflow of other people's pain.

But still, knowing someone out there depends on your skill to make them want to keep living… A constant reminder they are still there was not the worst thing in the world.

* * *

That night, the doctor's phone beeped at 1 am.

_SherlockHolmes has played PIQUED for 40 points._

* * *

**Author's note:** not quite done with fencing yet! Receiving reviews makes me want to write faster, so if you enjoy reading, please leave one.


	3. The Egg Experiment

**Chapter 3: The Egg Experiment**

* * *

Harriet's flat warming party was on Saturday night, a time when John would usually roll himself into a blanket and fall asleep, listening to the clock beside his bed tick soothingly. She moved in with a roommate – Clara, a woman John had never met before. In addition to the three of them, there were two couples John knew only briefly – their names and what they did for a living.

He arrived on time, a bottle of wine in hand, and a small gift in a bag that hung on his arm. John really wanted the evening to pass quickly, so he could return home and finish reading his novel with a nice cuppa. He didn't like Harry's friends. He was not very close with his sister herself, they used to fight all the time when they were children – now, they each had their own lives, and the occasional meeting to 'catch up' felt more like something they had to do as siblings than like something they actually wanted to do.

He knocked on the door, and a gorgeous woman opened it – tall, blonde, with big, sparkling eyes and a wide smile. She looked about thirty-five, and was wearing a figure-flattering dark green dress with a neckline just deep enough to make John's mood improve.

She let him in and told her name was Clara. In few seconds, Harriet came to greet him too, oven mitts on her hands, and gave him a kiss on the cheek before they all went into the kitchen to see if the duck has finished cooking.

* * *

"You've been texting your girlfriend all night."

John looked up from his phone to meet Clara's gaze – they were both standing in the hallway, having sat through few hours of listening to the other guests talk about something only they and Harry knew about.

"What? Oh… no, that's not- I'm playing _Words with Friends_, actually. With a _male_ patient." He quickly said. Clara seemed to be the exact opposite of his loud sister – she hadn't said a word during dinner.

"Really? Do you befriend a lot of patients?"

"No, and I haven't this time, either. It's just a good thing for him to do. To keep busy." John explained, feeling his phone vibrate with a notification that Sherlock had played another word. They have been playing for two days now – and John was proud that he hadn't lost _every_ game.

"You don't get paid to do this, though?"

"No, I guess it's not really part of my job description."

"Then why do you do it?" she asked, moving the wine glass so that the liquid would spin in a circle.

"Well… If me poking my phone trying to get letters into the word PIT can help someone not inflict damage upon themselves, then of course I will do it." John explained.

She smiled gently and peeked at the screen.

"You're very far behind."

"He's a genius."

She rolled her eyes in disbelief.

"No, really, he's a Nobel prize winner."

"Here, let me help." she offered, getting into a more comfortable position behind him. "Here, you can make the word QUEEN, make sure you put the Q on the triple letter tile." Upon meeting his surprised gaze, she explained: "I played scrabble all the time in school."

* * *

Later that night, when people were getting ready to leave, John's phone beeped.

_You had help. –SH_

_Yes, a little. How did you know? –JW_

_So, you cheated. –SH_

_It's the time between the words submission, it increased rapidly. –SH_

_Yet, you still won. –JW_

_Do you want to play another one? –JW_

_Did you have someone else play instead of you? –SH_

_No, just over-the-shoulder help. –JW_

_Okay. –SH_

"Well" John said, standing up "I'll be heading home now. Thanks for the dinner."

"I'll walk you out." Clara offered, standing up. As they tried to combine their efforts to beat Sherlock at the game, John and Clara got to know each other – she was a geography teacher, and a painter during her free time. John thought she was amazing - warm, and polite, unlike his sister, who was at times, like a hurricane that no one could hope to control. How did the two even become friends?

"Listen, John, I need to talk to you about something." She said as he unhanged his jacket from the rack.

"Yes?" He asked, slightly surprised by the seriousness of her tone.

"I told Harry to tell everyone we're roommates, but you're her brother, and such a kind person, and well… I guess I'll just say it, I'm her girlfriend, John."

"Oh."

"I know she's open about it, but I'm not – not to everyone, anyway."

"I see."

"I hope that's not… strange to you, I mean-"

"It's fine. Well, I was going to ask you out, actually." he admitted. "So I guess it's good that you've told me."

"I'll tell everyone else eventually. You're actually the first person outside my family I've spoken to about this. Thank you, John."

He smiled at her. "Thank you for the dinner. Goodbye, Clara."

It has been over a year since John thought about asking someone out. The fact that his own _sister_ beat him to it was not something he was very pleased with. It could have been funny – if he was a character in a sitcom, but seeing as it was John's actual life it just seemed unfair. She thought he was a nice person – of course, everyone always thought John was so _nice_.

_I'd much rather get laid_, he thought, realising now that he was the only single person the entire evening, which only made him sink deeper into self-loathing. It felt like going in circles – he was alone because he rarely went out, but every time he would go out he would just want to be back home again. Perhaps he should ask one of his friends to set him up with someone – although he could not imagine how that conversation would even go. After all, none of his friends were that close – most of them probably didn't even know John was single. He was 42, for God's sake.

Irritated, he skipped his move in the game, only to be further agitated when Sherlock won again.

* * *

_Bring a carton of eggs. –SH_

_Either colour is fine. –SH_

He woke twenty minutes before he had set the alarm to the sound of a received message. It was Monday, half past five in the morning. Being pulled from a vivid dream he could no longer remember, John stared at the text he had just received.

_Eggs?_

It probably should have been strange to John that he had spent his entire weekend glued to his phone, playing a game he almost never won with a man he barely knew. His relationship with his patients was always one sided – he was a doctor, not a friend, after all, although some patients would still inquire about John's personal life. He would not mind it up to some level, knowing it would feel more natural for some people to open up if their session seemed more like a conversation than an interview.

Sherlock was completely different. He had no idea what books or movies John liked, but being as phenomenally observant as he was, the man knew more than John would normally allow his patients to. He knew John was lonely, that work was all he had; even about his need to have his shoes clean.

In a way, he already knew more than the people John had worked with for years.

He sighed, adjusting his morning plans to stop by _Tesco_ to buy a carton of eggs. Hours later, he found himself sitting at the back of the black vehicle, taking him to Holmes manor, shamelessly excited to see what it was for.

* * *

"John!" The doctor jumped out of surprise as the door opened just as he was about to touch the handle. "Eggs!" Sherlock exclaimed with enthusiasm, grabbing the carton from John's hand and running towards the middle of the room, where a complicated looking machine was assembled. John gaped.

The thing looked like something straight out of a sci-fi movie – wires and chords had covered the floors of the room like roots of a tree in a forest, all leading to an about meter-tall metal box that had a tall, flexible appendage sticking out of its top, bent so that its end pointed towards a silver platter, placed on a pedestal. Everything looked self-assembled and worrying unstable.

As John stood there, gawking, Sherlock came back to the doorway and grabbed him firmly by the shoulders, strong smell of tobacco surrounding him like an aura. "Come along now!" he pulled John into the room and guided him towards a chair, facing the machine, making him sit down.

"Sherlock, what-"

"Oh, good, you haven't eaten lunch!"

"How d-"

"I can tell from your abdomen, it's slightly flatter than usual; you always eat lunch before coming here, so naturally you haven't eaten this time – which is perfect. Hold this." he placed some kind of remote control on John's hands. "They brought my equipment from the lab, oh this is like Christmas!"

"Uh…"

Sherlock dashed towards the machine, and adjusted the strange looking appendage to point at a silver platter; then, he grabbed one egg from the carton and placed it on it. He put on the goggles that have been hanging around his neck and leaned in to stare at the egg.

"Okay, now press the yellow button!"

"What?"

"The button John, press it! The yellow one, and don't mess with the handles!"

John knew that this was possibly quite dangerous and it would have been the sensible thing to not take part in this possibly catastrophic experiment, so naturally, he pressed it.

At first, nothing happened.

And then, the egg exploded with a loud pop sound, bits of it scattering all over the room, Sherlock, and John. The doctor jumped up in surprise as one third of the hardened yolk hit his cheek. After a second, his face shaped in disgust.

"Too much!" Sherlock exclaimed, wiping the egg bit of his face with the back of his hand. "Turn the left handle from 40 to 20!"

"This is- Sherlock!" John protested, watching his patient make a full circle around the plate which was now empty, except for a small shell remain. "This is unsafe!"

"20, left handle."

John sighed. Sherlock grinned at him, showing his big teeth. He placed another egg in the centre. "Okay, ready? The yellow button, quickly!"

John pressed the button again and closed his eyes preparing for impact with another exploding egg. He had to admit to himself at that moment, that this was an improvement to how usually his sessions would go. Even if he has to pick egg bits from his hair when he got home.

After 3 seconds of silence, he opened one eye. The egg was still intact.

"Yes! Beautiful." Sherlock smiled, picking up the egg and tossing it into air; he then caught it again and spun it around in his hand, admiring.

"This is mad!" John stared as Sherlock ran towards him with the egg in his gloved hand, a maniacal smile not once disappearing from his face. It was terrifying. He took the remote from John.

"Hold this." he took off the thick glove and gave it to John together with the egg. "Careful, it's still hot." as John hesitantly took it, the younger man ran towards the other end of the room, and then returned in a few seconds with a salt shaker. "Here you go."

John blinked. "Uh… I-"

"Eat it!" Sherlock nodded encouraging him. John took the salt shaker from him, feeling completely baffled.

"What did you –_we_- do?"

"Oh this-" Sherlock motioned back at the device, keeping his eyes fixed on John "This is a fully operational industrial heat gun! Go ahead, eat the egg!"

"Why don't you eat it yourself?"

"I don't eat when I'm working." Sherlock explained, his face close to John's as he observed.

"Fine, just step back a bit, yeah?" John said, knocking the egg on the small table beside to crack the shell.

"Go ahead, take a bite!"

"Just give me a moment, okay?" John shook some salt on the tip of the egg and took one last breath before sinking his teeth into the soft white mass. Sherlock watched him without blinking.

"Well?"

"Well…" John said with his mouth full "It tastes just like a boiled egg."

"Is it delicious?"

"It's fine. Harder than I usually have them…"

"Oh, do you want another one? I can adjust the duration to a few microseconds less-"

"No, that's quite… alright…" John assured him.

Sherlock smiled at him, but did not say another thing until John finished his egg.

"Uh… thanks." John said, slightly confused whether that was appropriate in such a ridiculous situation.

"You're welcome. This is marvellous. Powerful enough to boil metal, if needed." He patted the machine lovingly.

"Right so…" John cleared his throat. "I'm here to-"

"I know, I know" Sherlock flailed his arms around and walked to the couch that has been moved next to the fireplace, petulant pout on his full lips. John followed him and sat on the chair again, having eaten the egg that he was still worried will kill him in a few hours.

"I have an important matter to address." he said, clearing his throat.

"Listening." the patient replied, his eyes closed and hands stapled together, as though he had suddenly felt exhausted.

"You haven't been examined by a doctor in more than 5 years." John told him. "You need to get checked, Sherlock, something could be seriously wrong with your health."

"And what would that entail?" he did not sound even slightly interested.

"All the usual stuff, blood tests, palpation, auscultation. That is, you need to get your internal organs examined by having a doctor touch them and listening to them, particularly your lungs, because I haven't seen you without a cigarette for more than thirty minutes. I'm also pretty sure you are dangerously underweight and your sleeping and eating habits are the worst, too. A planned diet would do wonders for your mood. You're 37, so a prostate exam could wait a few years, although-"

"If you keep on talking, we'll soon be done with the last part." he sneered.

"Is that some kind of derogatory reference to me being a pain in your arse? Look, that's just a suggestion, feel free to ignore everything I said. You know it's not my job to deal with this – I just think you could do with taking care of yourself tad bit more."

"I don't like people touching me. And I don't like doctors."

"Good to know." John grinned. "Although hardly surprising." he scratched his head. "I can only do as much as check your blood pressure and listen to your heart and lungs, still, that's better than nothing."

"You're in no way an exception to what I just said previously."

_You'd think eating the damn egg would get me some respect _John thought, preparing himself for another session of silence from his patient. He gave a few minutes pause before he spoke again, trying to get on course with the therapy plan he had just prepared, but just as he begun, Sherlock replied with:

"You're still here?"

And they ended up spending the rest of the session making the rest of the eggs explode, while measuring the diameter of the largest remaining bit.

When John finally left, he was pretty sure there was some egg yolk under his shirt that he absolutely needed to get rid of as soon as possible. Sitting on the back seat of the car and wiggling awkwardly to get it to fall out, he wondered whether he should have forced the patient into talking more. After all, he did look happy during the egg experiment. Was that not a better progress than a few painfully uttered sentences?

He thought about Wednesday, and pondered what kind of crazy thing he'll end up doing then, but all that excitement disappeared into complete dread when his phone beeped on Tuesday night, with a message that caused his heart to jump into his throat.

* * *

**Author's note:** to be continued in Chapter 4. Once again, I love reviews! Sometimes one additional review is all that takes for me to drop whatever I'm doing and write the next chapter, so if you like my story don't hesitate to leave one.


	4. The Sleepless Night

**Chapter 4: The Sleepless Night**

* * *

_And I find it kind of funny  
I find it kind of sad  
The dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had  
I find it hard to tell you,  
I find it hard to take  
When people run in circles it's a very, very  
Mad world_

* * *

John had been dreaming again – restless dreams, filled with running, difficultly, as though through water, his legs tangling between themselves, muscles weak, breath heavy. When his phone beeped John jumped up, part of his mind still struggling with complex maze he had been trying to get out of in the dream. He glanced at the clock on his bedside table.

It was 2 am.

The phone screen's dim glow was the only illumination in the dark room in which John slept – the curtains were closed, so that even the street lights would not fall through the windows. The doctor lay in the bed, wondering whether he should look at the message, or go back to sleep. After all, if it had been something important, they would have surely called.

Still, he wondered who could be texting him this time of night. It was not like he was a teenager to find something among the lines of "are you asleep?" from a girl that likes him, or a parent, to be texted by his kid that he's running late. There was only one person he's been texting with lately, but what could _he_ want?

He slid over from the middle of the bed to the side and picked the phone up.

_Would you please come over? –SH_

John looked at the letters on screen. It was a simple text – for anyone else who would have read it, that didn't know Sherlock or wasn't a professional in psychology. John stared at the little _please_ in the middle, the _would_ at the beginning. Too polite.

Something was wrong.

_Now? –JW_

He replied, turning the light on in the room and squinted, slightly blinded by the brightness. It was Tuesday night. Every bit of sleepiness evaporated – he felt his heart clench painfully from the sudden feel of anxiety.

_Yes. –SH_

_Please. –SH_

Twice, now. John stood up, quickly walking over to the wardrobe to find his clothes, while texting back.

_Okay. –JW_

_I'm on my way. –JW_

_They never ask for help directly_, John thought. No one ever says _help me_. Sometimes, they say nothing at all. Doesn't mean they don't want to be stopped. People kill themselves and sometimes all it could have taken to stop them is a _text_.

He gave the cabbie Sherlock's address, sitting on the edge of the seat as the vehicle began to move, his heart pounding in his chest. He barely knew him. Still, as he thought about the possibility of that man's death, it was more than the usual care for human life. He was Sherlock Holmes, a man that had, in three sessions, surprised John more than he had been in the past few years. He was a brilliant man and a damaged man – and John knew that if the distance had been tenfold, he would still have caught a cab and driven to where he was. He was worth every effort John could manage.

The journey seemed to go on forever. He bit on his chapped lips nervously, watching the city lights melt into a blur as the cab drove past, thinking, in some abandoned corner of his mind, about the logical reason behind a decision made in such haste. It could have been nothing – but his gut said that it was _something_, and since the moment he read that text to come over, there was no doubt in his mind, not until he was already in the cab.

Three times he had seen him. Three times were almost nothing compared to years he spent with some of his patients. And yet, it was enough. Enough for him to worry, immensely, not only as a doctor, but as the man he was. And he was looking forward to Wednesday. John hadn't looked forward to something in a very long time. What if tomorrow he's informed that Wednesday is free again?

No. No. He mentally told himself. That was unlike him, to make such predictions. He worries about his patients – all of them. That's just how he is. There is no need to make this case any more special than others.

And still, as the cab drove on, he had to admit to himself that if Sherlock had died now, his death would be forever on John's conscience. Because, from what little they've spoke, John believed, with all his heart, that he could have helped that man.

Finally, the cab stopped beside the gate to the manor and John paid the driver before stepping onto the damp grass, taking his bag, and heading towards the entrance, his knees feeling awfully stiff.

He knocked twice on the door. Every second afterwards had felt nothing else but the heartbeat thumping loudly in his ears, like a drumbeat that swallowed everything in its path. John counted the passing seconds in his mind, each more heart wrenching than the last. How many times would he count, until he would determine no one was going to come?

Then, the door opened slowly, and yellow light fell onto the front porch, stairs and John's figure, embracing the tall thin silhouette in the doorway, whose shaky fingertips still clung to the handle.

"Oh, it's you." Sherlock said, as though expecting someone else.

His face was swollen, eyes empty; his gaze unfocused, hands trembling. He held onto the door handle as though without it, he would have fallen down. When he spoke, the voice sounded weak and husky, as if he had been woken from deep sleep. His clothes were dirty and in complete disarray, dark curls tangled into knots, feet bare on the cold ground. It was the worst John had seen him. And still, in the expression on his face was no trace of emotion, as though an alabaster mask has been moulded perfectly to his features and glued onto them, capturing any escaping hint of pain in its white, hard grasp.

"Yes, you texted me." John said, his voice calm. He would not lose his composure in a situation such as this – nothing good would have come if he decided to show just how relieved he was too see that man open the door, or how worried he had been on his way here, images of Sherlock's dead body filling his mind's eye.

He stepped inside.

"Is there anyone else home?" the doctor asked.

"No, just me." Sherlock replied, closing the door.

"I see." John looked him in the eyes.

"John… The reason I texted you…"

John shook his head and the younger man stopped talking.

"I know why. It's alright." He assured. Surprise and unbelief filled the other man's face. John could see the slight hint of embarrassment and regret too – hidden, somewhere in the corners of those tear-damaged eyes. "I'm glad that you did." John added. "That's why I gave you my number, after all."

Sherlock looked away, and for a while, both of them stood awkwardly in the dim-lit hallway, the ticking of the old grandfather clock piercing the silence with thin needles of time.

"You wanted me to cove over, and I did. I don't need an explanation, unless you want to talk about it. It's okay, really." the younger man did not reply. "Do you have any leftovers I could possibly eat? If I'm not asleep at night I get awfully peckish." John asked. Sherlock's eyes widened, as it was definitely not what he expected to hear.

"Uhm… I think… Yes, the kitchen's this way" he pointed towards a door and they both headed there.

The kitchen was bigger than the entire area of John's flat. There was an electric fireplace that lit up with a flick of a button and a bar with tall chairs in the middle, table top made from grey marble. The dark haired man did not turn the lights on, but let the glow of the fire drench the room in vibrating half-light.

Sherlock walked over to the double-door fridge and retrieved something from inside; John sat by the bar, swinging his legs in the air. The black haired man returned with half of a chocolate cake and placed it in front of John without an introduction.

"Cake?" John asked, looking at the caramel and nut filled monstrosity.

"It's Mycroft's favourite." Sherlock nonchalantly explained, taking a seat in front of John and giving him a soup spoon.

"You think we can eat all of it?" John pondered, poking the surface.

"We?"

John smiled at the man in front of him. "Grab a spoon, yeah?"

They sat in silence, the flames dancing in the fireplace. Sherlock's eyes studied John's face, as though he was trying to find something, but could not.

"You hurried here." He finally said. "Your jumper is inside-out and based on my calculations you couldn't have spent more than ten minutes in your flat after you've received my text."

John looked down to see that he had, indeed, put the jumper on the wrong way and sighed.

"Yeah, I guess."

"Why?"

"Because such a reasonable man wouldn't text me for no reason, right?"

Sherlock's nose wrinkled.

"What?" John asked, his voice muffled by the frosting in his mouth "Did you expect a speech? I'm glad you are okay. And that you've texted me. Everyone needs company once in a while."

"You perplex me." Sherlock silently said, searching John's face for any hint of lie.

"You didn't think I'd come?"

"I knew you would. But that's precisely what's strange."

"Well… I'm glad that you count on me, then."

Sherlock's lips parted, but no words came out. He looked confused. _Was he not used to people caring for him?_ John wondered.

He then asked instead:

"What's the H stand for?"

"Huh?"

"In your name, on the card."

"Oh, Hamish."

"Do you get a bad record in your file, if your patient dies? Or a retraction from your salary? How does that work?" it was as though he was looking for any selfish reason behind the way John acted.

"This is good cake." the doctor replied instead.

"John… Would you answer the question?"

"No. As far as I'm concerned it's bloody three am in the morning and I'm still wearing my pyjama t-shirt underneath and my job doesn't start until eight, so help me eat the damn cake, will you?"

John realised then, that as he sat and ate the cake with the socially inept genius in the middle of the night, being studied like a particularly interesting experiment, he was not doctor-John at this time. Doctor-John was nice and official and had a barrier built around himself as to not let emotions touch his actual self – doctor-John could hear the worst of things and not be bothered for a second. Doctor-John was a reasonable man, but not a friendly man.

But he was just John now – with his defences lowered and his mind vulnerable, and the relief of seeing Sherlock open that door has flicked some kind of switch inside his head, throwing the whole patient-doctor rulebook out of the window.

"Why?"

"Because I can't eat it alone, it's way too much."

"I don't understand why it needs to be completely consumed anyway."

"Just eat the fucking cake, Sherlock."

"Oh. I didn't know you swore." the younger man said, his curiosity piqued.

"Everyone swears."

"I don't."

"Are we going to talk or are we going to eat this beautiful bastard and go play another game of chess?"

They ate in silence for a while, both thinking about the strange, but not at all unpleasant situation they were in. _It should be odd_, John thought. But it wasn't. It felt cosy.

"John, if you leave now, you might manage at least a couple of hours of sleep before work." Sherlock said later, odd warmth in his voice John had never heard before.

"Yeah, you're not getting me to leave."

"I'm not-" he took a bite of the cake, eyeing the doctor carefully. It seemed that the situation had been something new to him, and he wasn't quite sure how to deal with it. "This cake has a lot of calories." he finally said.

"Mhm, do I look like I give a flying fart? I work out every day, might as well enjoy myself. Anyway, how is your brother still skinny if he eats cakes all the time?" John spoke, feeling comfortable with just saying what he was thinking. The situations to do that were rare. At work, he had to be the responsible doctor, on dates he had to sound like a good potential boyfriend, and with friends he had to pretend like he was not at all miserable and wouldn't have gladly taken the wife and kid problems of his mates, instead of waking up alone every morning. It felt good to just be _John who doesn't give a fuck and eats cake in the middle of the night_.

"Mycroft hides his fat under a well-tailored suit." Sherlock explained and grinned. John smiled at him with his mouth full.

"Look, in roughly fourteen hours I'll come here for our session, and if he asks me where his cake is, I'll just blame you." John warned him.

Sherlock snorted.

"You wouldn't."

John wiggled his brows fiendishly. The younger man's lips twitched in effort to hold back a smile.

* * *

Sun began to rise outside when they finished their second chess game, its golden light gently colouring the mess in Sherlock's room. John yawned, brushing away a few sleepy tears.

"Well, time to head to work." He said, standing up from the ground on which they both were sitting. "I'll see you later today, yeah?"

Sherlock observed him from the floor, sitting on top of his long bent legs, putting the figures back in place.

"I didn't text you why you think I did." he said. "If I wanted to kill myself I would have done it. I'm not afraid of that." he looked down at the white king. "I had a severe withdrawal case, and you're the only idiot who would have come to keep me busy."

John furrowed his brows. Yes, that did make sense. The ever-present mortal pang of being bored.

"And yet, you _wanted_ my company." John smiled, watching Sherlock's eyebrows rise. "You were feeling bad and you texted _me_. So, I'm sorry if you're expecting me to get offended, because I most certainly am not. I will see you on the afternoon." and with that, he left for work.

* * *

**Author's note:** The song in the beginning is _Mad World_ by Gary Jules. What did you think about this chapter? Do you think Sherlock lied? Let me know in the reviews!


	5. Adjudication

**Author's note: **Thank you all for the reviews and favs, especially the Guests whom I can't thank in PMs. If the title of this chapter confuses you, don't worry - it will be explained at the end, and you'll see why I haven't added the explanation here.

* * *

**Chapter 5: ****Adjudication**

* * *

"Word spread about you and the Holmes case. Got a new patient that has been asking specifically for you. Has ties to the royal family, I heard."

"Huh?" John croaked, having fitted half of a bagel into his mouth during lunch. Stamford was glaring knowingly at him across the table.

"She's the cream of society and all that. You're a damn good psychiatrist, I'm glad you're getting recognition." he took a sip of his tea and adjusted his glasses. "Nymphomaniacs are always interesting."

"I don't know if I got a spot in my schedule." John replied. "Besides, why would someone rich go to a clinic like ours?"

Stamford shrugged. "Anyway, the boss is ecstatic. You might want to talk about him raising your salary."

"Do people really talk about my patients like that? Why would anyone care?"

"Well, to be honest, we've been betting on how long you're going to last with that guy and you've beaten everyone's expectations. John Watson, nerves of steel." He grinned.

"Oh shut up. But yeah, if taking that woman's case would get me some extra quid – legally- then why not I suppose."

"Why did you say it like that? _Legally_?"

"I've been offered some _incentives_ before." John shrugged.

He yawned, stuffing the rest of the bagel in his mouth. The massive amounts of coffee he had consumed were of no help after twenty-four sleepless hours.

"You look terrible today. Sorry." his co-worker noticed.

"Yeah, I haven't been home the entire night."

"Nice." Stamford assessed.

John decided it was best not to tell him that his deductions of what John had been busy with had been completely off. Befriending your patients was not exactly forbidden, but it was definitely frowned upon by some people, as it had the potential of standing in the way of the doctor making a good decision. And while John did not think he had crossed that line, he had to admit to himself that last night was not even close to professional spectrum.

He bid Stamford farewell and returned to his office. Inside, he looked over the file of the patient that was mentioned, thinking that it made absolutely no sense that taking Holmes' case made him somehow famous in his field. It was not completely unlikely that a rich family like Sherlock's would have influential friends, but did someone really recommend John to this woman? Who could it be? Certainly not Sherlock himself. John sat in his chair, his eyelids feeling as though they were full of lead. Could it be Mycroft? He certainly seemed to know a lot about the doctor's career.

_Irene Adler_ was the woman's name. After a few minutes of playing with the Newton's cradle on his desk, John decided he could use the raise Stamford said he would get. He yawned again and phoned his boss.

* * *

"Well, from what I gathered, he is not depressed, so I cannot prescribe him any medicine at this point. Sherlock is a brilliant man, but his mind seems to pull him far away from reality at times, and he could do with someone keeping him from floating away. A friend." John told Mycroft, as they both sat in the man's study before Sherlock's session.

Mycroft smiled sarcastically.

"This is my brother we're talking about."

"I'm not saying it will be easy, he's a difficult man, yes. Right now it's important for him to at least leave the house, go out a bit, even if for a few hours." John explained, the older Holmes' eyes staring at him attentively. "Has he always been like this, I mean, antisocial?"

"Since he was a child."

"I see. Well, thank you, I will go see him now." He said, standing up and heading towards the door.

"That was very… Generous of you to come all that way from London here last night." Mycroft smiled.

John turned around.

"It's nothing."

He closed the door and headed down a long corridor that lead to Sherlock's room.

John did not ask Mycroft about the woman – if anything, he didn't want to seem paranoid. He did not mind another patient, of course, especially if it meant a slight change in his salary, but something was very strange to him about the whole situation. For someone to ask for him specifically… That had never happened before. John knew that the woman suffered from nymphomania. In those cases, variety of medications could be prescribed. John mentally went through his past patients while he walked, remembering what worked on them. Antidepressants, anti-androgens… He had a surprisingly good memory of what he had prescribed years before.

John saw a man walking towards him in an opposite direction; he was only a bit taller than John, dressed in a fine dark blue suit and black tie, carrying a leather briefcase in his hand. The man's hair was dark, short and neatly combed, eyes dark brown, with a gleam of vigour. The corners of his lips were raised upwards, but the expression on his face was cold. When they looked at each other, their eyes locked; neither blinked until they passed one another, a strange unpleasant feeling coming over John.

He seemed to have come out of Sherlock's room. Was someone visiting him? Mycroft made it seem unlikely to happen, but Sherlock couldn't have made a career without talking to anyone. Something about that man rubbed John the wrong way – the way he had looked at him made it seem like the man knew John.

He stepped into Sherlock's room, only to find him giving orders to a younger woman, whom John had also never seen before. She had a look of panic in her eyes as she juggled a dozen papers, trying to simultaneously write down everything the man was saying.

"… no, no! Don't put those away, I'll need them later. And archive the rest of these papers from the November experiment and for God's sake, Molly, would you stop waiting for that man from the bar to call, he would have done it right now- Well, of course I know, you've been glancing at your phone like it was about to grow legs… Oh, hello John."

They both turned to look at the doctor at the same time.

"Hello." The woman said, smiling as though she didn't know how very well.

"This is Molly, my assistant from work, this is John, my friend-"

"Psychiatrist." John corrected him, giving the girl and encouraging nod. "I'm here for our session?"

"Yes, right, get out of the room" Sherlock shooed the brunette. John frowned as she headed for the door and opened it for her. She muttered a silent _thanks_ before she disappeared.

Sherlock fell limply on the couch and looked at the doctor.

"Hi." John said slowly. "Have you started working again?"

"No, they won't have me. _Too unstable_ they say. This was about my older research. Fencing?"

"And who was that man? I ran into him in the corridor, a friend of yours?"

Sherlock scoffed. "No. He's an enemy."

"An enemy?"

"Jim Moriarty is the man I had the misfortune to work with during my last research, because we are both experts in the field. He has, however, completely different goals than I do, and has tried to buy my compliance since our first successful press conference. Seeing I was not interested in the money, he took up to himself to use other means to persuade me, and while I am not fond of his methods, I must say I admire his persistence in the matter."

"What do you mean different goals?"

"If our research was successful, some of the industry fields would be revolutionised. Some of these changes aren't exactly advantageous to some companies, so it is in their interest to buy our silence on the matter, as to not disturb the _economy_."

"I see."

"This happens all the time, John, and most people don't even know it. Nicole Tesla claimed he could generate power from the Earth's magnetic field, but think of what it could have done to electricity providers?"

"But he's a scientist, Moriarty?"

"Yes, and he enjoys milking the companies for every quid they've got, and I can assure you the amounts are way more than what he would make if his inventions came into the market. Although the thing he values more than money is influence. Through blackmailing."

He looked at John from head to toe. "Are you going to keep standing there?"

The doctor walked over to find his chair replaced by a softer leather seat he had never seen before.

"Well this is a nice improvement." John assessed. Sherlock curled on the sofa, hugging his knees. "There are a few topics I need to ask you about, since we're already talking about relationships…"

Sherlock sighed but said nothing. John took it as a good sign.

"I'm going to have to ask you about your past relationships. I can assure you that anything you say never leaves this room." the patient rolled his eyes.

"Are you currently single?" John asked, although he was almost certain of the answer.

"Relationships don't interest me."

"What would you say is your preferred gender for a partner?"

"Men." he replied plainly. "Although it's of little importance, as I consider myself married to my work."

"Have you dated in the past?"

Sherlock's eyes drifted towards this window as he gave it a thought. "Once, in university."

"Do you keep in touch?"

"No."

"Can you tell me why the relationship ended?"

"It was no longer convenient for either of us."

"Would you say that relationship was the reason you no longer seek others?"

"No." he looked back at John. "It was brief. I don't consider it important."

"Did it make you happy?"

"I was interested." Sherlock explained.

It was an unusual answer, John thought. Although it did suit Sherlock – treating a relationship like another experiment. Perhaps, he had gathered the necessary 'data', John pondered. There was no trace of any nostalgia or sadness when John touched the topic – it was as if the doctor had asked about something completely dull, and not the man's only romantic experience. Not everyone required a partner to be happy, after all, and Sherlock definitely seemed like that kind of person, at least from what conclusions John could have made thus far.

He could, however, use a friend, just as John had told Mycroft. It was not untypical for someone with Asperger's to depend on other people. The doctor knew that Sherlock would never admit to this – he was too arrogant to acknowledge it, and perhaps he actually believed he was better off alone.

"It would be good for you to go out. It doesn't have to be anything grand – perhaps a coffee with a friend in London." John carefully suggested.

"I don't have friends, John. You know that." there was no regret or spite in his words. Of course, John had not missed him referring to John as his friend, but the doctor thought it best to keep that patient-doctor barrier intact. After all, John was completely different when he was not working, and much as Sherlock could deduce about him, he still interacted with the version of John that was made to be likeable. Well, perhaps not so much last night…

"Well what about someone from work, like Molly?"

Sherlock made a face.

"I see." John replied.

He made the patient eat cake. And he swore. That was not very professional, but it seemed to have had a positive effect. John wondered, if Sherlock only spoke to those he worked with, then did he ever have a chance to speak casually with someone? Did he even want that was another question.

"I don't normally do this, but if you're comfortable with it, we could talk in a café once or twice. It would be good for you." the doctor offered.

"During the same hours?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes, I won't require extra time from you." John assured.

Sherlock looked slightly irritated.

"Why do you think I would go through with that?"

"Why not?" John shrugged.

Sherlock scratched the back of his head. "Obviously because I don't _want to_."

"Why don't you?"

He sighed. "Can't you make your own conclusions, _doctor_?"

"I'd much rather hear you say it."

The patient stood up from the couch and walked over to the table where the chess board was. "This has become quite a tradition of ours. If you beat me once, I'll go."

The doctor bit his lip in frustration. Of course this sort of thing would benefit Sherlock – John had no chance to win, but if they keep playing there will be less room for his questions.

"Fine." he agreed, and they set up for the first game.

* * *

John stared at his king, feeling slightly sorry for the many deaths it had to suffer that day. Once again, the defences were taken down and it stood there vulnerable, ready to be taken down by Sherlock's knight. The doctor was awaiting his patients deep voice to slowly and arrogantly checkmate him, but instead, Sherlock said:

"It's late."

"Huh?" John looked up from the board, to meet the pair of blue eyes in front of him. The gaze was intense.

"It's late. You normally leave at five."

"And what's the time now?" John asked, only now noticing that it was getting darker outside the window. It was late autumn – the days grew shorter and the wind colder. Back at his apartment, John had already readied his warmer pyjamas and woollen sleeping socks. Outside, the trees were shedding their leaves, cluttering the streets with shades of red and yellow. Somehow, even the air smelled different when winter was around the corner. John loved it.

"It's almost six." Sherlock said.

"Oh!" John almost jumped from his chair. "I didn't even notice. Sorry." He looked at the board, noticing Sherlock still hadn't captured John's king, although it was his turn. "Go on then." John urged him.

"You knew you would lose."

"Yes, don't gloat."

"But we played _five_ games."

"Yes, yes, I'm terrible at this. No need to rub it in my face." John muttered.

"No, I mean _you_ played _five_ games that you knew you would lose." Sherlock said, something in his eyes that John had never seen before. "You also know I'm not someone who would _let_ you win. You wouldn't want that either. But… " he looked down at the board. "Okay."

"What?"

"Okay, I'll go with you." he said.

"Oh." John was surprised. "Okay, uh… So, this Friday?"

"Alright." Sherlock agreed. John packed his things.

"There's a nice place I know, I'll text you the address when I get home." he said and headed for the door. "Until then?"

"Goodbye, John." Sherlock replied.

* * *

When John climbed into the car, he realised that Sherlock never won that last game. All it would have taken was for him to say _checkmate_.

But he didn't.

* * *

**Author's note:**

_Adjudication_ - (chess) The process of a strong chess player deciding on the outcome of an unfinished game.

And so it has been decided! John is going to meet Sherlock in a cafe instead of his home, but he has no idea how surprised he's going to be... As always, more reviews means faster update, so please leave one!


	6. A Change in Demeanour

**Chapter 6: ****A Change in Demeanour**

* * *

It was 4 pm in the afternoon. The rain fell gently onto John's umbrella as he made his way to the familiar café, the walls of old buildings surrounding him in the narrow street. He had no briefcase today – he dropped it off at his flat that was quite close to the place to which he was heading. Everything he needed lied at the bottom of his pockets – phone, keys and wallet. He reached inside. Surprisingly enough, there was also some _ChapStick_. For men. It was blue. And it had the word _for men_ on it. For cowboys exposed to wind and snow on Western plains. It was _manly_, John insisted. He turned the corner and finally saw the place he and Sherlock decided to meet in.

When was the last time he had gone out like this?

It's been a while.

The small café was the place he would often invite people to – it was cosy, and provided private enough booths to enjoy a conversation, romantic and business alike. The coffee was good, the snacks even better. John pushed the door, and having closed his umbrella, stepped inside.

It was very warm, and it smelled of fresh pastries, mixed with coffee beans and hot chocolate, with a dash of grilled cheese. Very few people were inside at a time – John saw a couple snuggling in the corner and a tall man in a suit beside the bar. There was no sign of Sherlock yet. John looked at the time – he was two minutes early.

The doctor could never guess whether his patient would be punctual or not, but he decided to wait a few more minutes before he sat by one of the tables. The smell of hot beverages was alluring. John thought about the chance of Sherlock not showing up at all – it was not entirely unlike him. After all, he hated these sessions.

He looked through the window, hoping to see the black car. It was true what he had told Sherlock before – he did not normally do this. Making his patients feel better was in his best interests, however, and it would be nice to see that man out of his dust-filled room into the daylight. For a moment, the doctor sank into his memories of all the other times he's been in this place, wondering, deep in his mind, why they have ceased over the past year.

"Good afternoon, John." said the deep familiar voice, right next to John's ear. The doctor turned around in a heartbeat, startled.

A man of extraordinary appearance stood before him.

It was the man John had seen standing by the bar earlier – the man in the dark suit and violet shirt, with flawless alabaster skin and bright, green eyes that glowed in the daylight. A provocative smell of spicy cologne reached John's nose, a mixture of musk, cinnamon and bergamot; the fervour in the man's eyes making John take a half a step back in bewilderment.

"Hey." John managed. _He didn't recognise him._

He had Sherlock's voice – but he was a different man. John felt as though he was in front of a stranger.

"Shall we get a table then?" Sherlock offered, smirking at the surprise evident in John's face. The doctor followed his patient and sat down in front on him behind a table for two, by window that faced the street.

Only now, John realised how different the two of them were. Of course, John had seen the manor, he knew Sherlock came from a rich family, but he didn't _live_ in it. The man who strolled around in dirty pyjamas, weeks late for a shower was hardly an embodiment of the upper class, but now, and he sat in front of the doctor, his back straight as an arrow, his hair perfectly cut and styled, expensive watch on his wrist, hands stapled together under his chin and his gaze intense, a strange feeling came across the doctor. As a professional, he had no difficulty with that sort of thing – it was the _human_ side of him that was beginning to feel slightly uncomfortable. The green in Sherlock's eyes fused with blue as his dark curls shaded him from direct light.

"You look good." John stated. "I barely-"

"You didn't. I saw you look at me when you came in." Sherlock replied. Now that he had shaved, he looked much younger, his lips fuller, light red contrasting with porcelain white.

"Hah, yeah, I suppose."

"Why this particular place?" Sherlock asked.

"I like it here. Is there something wrong with it?"

"No." he replied, arranging the salt and pepper shakers to align with the ornament on the table. "I arrived ten minutes earlier than you. Had a look around. The barista – did you notice her? – in her thirties, single, and lying to her parents about having a boyfriend."

"She told you this?"

Sherlock shook his head. "She is the daughter of the owner, you can always tell that it's a family business by the way they interact with customers and handle the money. She wears an engagement ring, but it's a fake. It's made of zircon, which, while extremely new looks like a diamond, so it must be recently bought – having in mind that no self-respecting man would buy such a cheap ring for his fiancée, the manner in which she spoke with me was more or less on the flirting side – no one recently and happily engaged would act in such way."

"Maybe she's just unhappy then?"

"Slim chance, however, eliminated once I pointed it out and she blushed in embarrassment."

"That was a bit rude."

"Rude? Why? It's the same as noticing you've changed shirts mid-day because you got sweaty, that's just noticing things."

"That was a bit rude, too." John frowned slightly. "How do you know it's her parents' café?"

"Well, firstly, whom does she wear the pretend ring for? If it was for customers not to hit on her – which, let's face it, is unlikely due to her disproportionate features, she would not have tried to flirt with me – obviously, she's somewhat interested in men, so the ring is more of an obstacle in this case. So why does she wear it? Who else sees her in the café, beside her customers? If it was friends, she could keep it handy when they come. No, it's someone who's constantly here. The cook. The male cook, he's about fifty three, and they do look alike, if you notice the nose shape. Relative, then. Most likely – father. Ergo, the ring is for him. She's old enough for the relatives to start inquiring about her getting serious, so she's lying. Maybe because she can't find someone, maybe she prefers one night stands. Either way, working for them, the ring is the easiest way to get the parents off her back."

"I see. That's amazing." he smiled. When the waiter came to take their order, Sherlock asked for black coffee.

"Same for me." John said.

"Would you like any desert with that?"

John looked at Sherlock but the man seemed indifferent. "Uhm… Yeah, do you have any of those fruits wrapped in dough?"

When they were alone again, the doctor asked curiously:

"What about that couple in the corner?"

Sherlock glanced at them briefly.

"He's a teacher, maybe a professor – he's got bit of chalk on his jumper, and really who else would use chalk and wear bowties? She is rich, out of his league too – much younger, but not young enough to be his student. They had sex not too long ago, judging from her knees and his hair – this area is surrounded by flats, but there are also a few hotels nearby. No one would go through the hassle of dressing back up to drink coffee and grab a bite to eat if they were at home – to they rented a hotel room, which had neither a kettle nor a restaurant, so they went to the closest place. But he teaches _here_ – and he had done so today, as well, so he lives _here_. Why not bring her to his place? Cheating on his wife, most likely. He's not wearing a wedding ring, so he must have lied to her about reasons for renting a hotel. They're not serious then. If he had… paid for her services, why would they go for a coffee afterwards? No, it's mutual. But what's her motive?" Sherlock glanced at them again. "Ah, there it is. It's the attention. She's moderately good looking, but not enough to have men of her level to shower her with attention, but this man – to him, she is twice as better as he could normally get. And of course, attention is what she likes – just look at the way she dresses." He looked at John and smirked.

"Brilliant." John cleared his throat. "Sorry. I keep repeating myself."

"Oh, don't stop." Sherlock flashed an arrogant smile.

The waiter brought their coffee.

"See, this is nice. Leaving the house means you can talk smack about people that aren't me." John grinned, watching Sherlock add two sugars into his drink. The dark haired man raised a brow.

"I do not talk _smack_-"

"Yes, I know. I'm joking. I guess most people aren't comfortable when you point some things out, even if they're true."

"Are you uncomfortable?"

"I'm fine." John said. "I'm not easily affected, you know. Besides, nothing interesting happens to me, so it's not like you can unravel a dark secret!" he took a sip of his coffee. "Right then – public space, no need to talk about anything personal. Is there anything _you_ would like to talk about?"

Surprisingly enough, there was no immediate 'no'. Sherlock thought on it for a while.

"Do you never take sugar with your coffee?"

"Uhm… I meant, talk about something concerning you." John corrected.

"Is that not how conversations go? You insisted I _hang out_, did you not?"

"Asking about me is completely unnecessary." the doctor said. "I'm here to listen to you, not the other way around. Yes, I don't like sugar."

John watched the raindrops race each other on the glass of the café's window. When was the last time he actually talked about himself, to anyone? What would he even say, if someone asked how he felt, day to day? He stretched out his legs under the table, accidentally touching Sherlock's foot. The other man immediately pulled it away.

"_Muons_. Remember, you said you read my papers? They're tiny particles, like electrons – we can actually send them forward in time, by manipulating the gravity around them. It's fascinating." Sherlock started talking, as though half of conversation had already happened in his head.

"What, like in _Doctor Who_?" John asked.

"Well, it's not going to be less than a hundred years before we can send human beings through time, but it's not impossible. In theory, if we created an Einstein-Rosenberg bridge… a wormhole, we could send something from one place in time in space to another in matter of nanoseconds!" He continued. John watched Sherlock's eyes glow with excitement when he spoke.

As he continued, John understood less and less. It all blurred to him into a physics babble, filled with terms he had never heard before, but Sherlock did not seem to mind John's lack of response. He talked a lot – more than John had ever heard him to, and the doctor was happy to see such a change. When the waiter brought the desert, Sherlock ate it, probably not even taking the time to feel the taste – he was too busy explaining to John how a black hole could be used as a power source.

"Although" he said at the end "the black hole would have to orbit the Earth as pulling it close to any matter would result in destruction of it. So that's just a concept." He drank the rest of his coffee in one go.

"What needs to be done for you to get your job back?" John asked.

"If I agree to work with Moriarty on the next project, they are likely to take me. He is a professor here in London – they don't like him any more than I do, but the two of us is a combination they don't want to miss out on. That's why he was in Mycroft's home the other day, trying to convince me to go for it."

"Are you going to do it?"

"I don't know. I'd rather find financial aid from elsewhere, and work alone."

"Mycroft won't give you money?"

"I don't need _his_ money. Besides, this is millions of pounds we're talking about."

"I see." John said.

The waiter brought their check after John had asked for it. Sherlock reached for it, but John took it first.

"I invited you, did I not?" John smiled. "And don't make a remark about me being poor, because I will kick you under the table, alright?"

Sherlock grinned, wrapping a dark blue scarf around his long neck. It did not feel like a session after all, just two people talking over coffee. _How normal_, John thought. He was glad that Sherlock had done most of the talking. Never would he feel more underachieved than when someone would inquire about his life and he would have so little to say.

He watched the man put on a long, dark coat that flattered his frame, and couldn't help but to admire him. Sherlock Holmes was a great man. It was nice for the doctor to think that he had something to do with the man's good mood. After all, he was right – all Sherlock needed was someone there for him, and the fact that he allowed John to be that someone, both flattered and intimidated the blonde man. It was not perhaps in his plans to befriend his patient, but John slowly came to terms with the fact that they both benefited from each other's company.

* * *

Sherlock offered to give a lift to John and they both got into the car on the backseat.

They did not speak for a while. It had already gotten dark. John leaned against the door, pressing his cheek against cool window. He thought about the empty flat he was returning to – the depressing yellow walls in the kitchen, the rust on the showerhead, the creaking of the door to his bedroom. And then it hit him. He was unhappy. Lonely, and sad, getting older every day, and yet watching the clock tick, wishing it would go faster. Why was it now that he thought of this? Perhaps, it was because of Sherlock – the man with the amazing mind and appearance and wealth – even he had sought death. Twice. And what did John have? How could he, man who had nothing, inspire someone else to live?

"I think we're going the wrong way…"John said, breaking the silence.

"Mmm?" Sherlock purred. When John turned to look at him, he saw that the man seemed to be very pleased with himself.

"My flat is on the other side." John told him.

"Oh. We're not going to your flat."

* * *

**Author's note:** I did not want to make a huge chapter, so you'll have to wait for the next one to see where they're actually going! Your reviews are my biggest inspiration to write more.


	7. Peckish Outlaw & Sleepy Genius

**Author's note: **Thank you all for the support! I have all these things I need to do at work/university, so naturally I sat down and wrote this chapter xD

* * *

**Chapter 7: Peckish Outlaw & Sleepy Genius**

* * *

_You raise the blade, you make the change__  
__You re-arrange me 'til I'm sane.__  
__You lock the door__  
__And throw away the key__  
__There's someone in my head but it's not me._

* * *

John blinked. "What?"

"We're not going to your flat."

"Where _are_ we going?"

"To Cardiff."

"CARDIFF? What… Sherlock! Hey, stop!" he yelled at the driver.

"Don't stop, James. We're going to Cardiff, John!"

"You're kidnapping me?"

"I prefer to call it surprise trip but if you like the other title better…" Sherlock shrugged.

John couldn't hold back a hysterical laugh. "Oh my God, you're serious?"

When Sherlock saw the reaction of man sitting beside him on the backseat of the car, a wide smile shaped his face.

"Yes! Not too far from University of Cardiff there is a place where they put away some of the equipment we used."

"Uhm… Couldn't you have gotten someone to retrieve it for you? You know, not that you have servants or assistants…" John mocked.

"Yes, but I don't have the proper authorisation for them." He pulled a bundle of keys from his coat. "I pickpocketed one of the professors because he was being annoying."

"We're breaking in?" John cried. "Breaking in?" he repeated.

"Mm, I suppose you can call it that." Sherlock smiled again.

"But… But why did you need to take me with you?"

"It was your idea to go out!" he beamed. John stared at him in disbelief.

"You're mad! Sorry, that's not my professional opinion, but seriously, Sherlock, you've gone daft! Why do you think I'm even remotely interested in doing something so crazy-"

"You're smiling." Sherlock said, and he was too. John huffed. And then he giggled.

"Cardiff is two damn hours away…"

"So? Tomorrow's Saturday. Don't tell me you've got plans, I won't believe you."

John nudged Sherlock's upper arm with his fist, and Sherlock chuckled.

"So, okay, we're also stealing the equipment, I assume? If it was yours…"

"Yes, exactly." Sherlock smiled, reaching again into his pocket and pulling out a bar of _Cadbury Milk_ chocolate.

John raised his brows questioningly.

"It's for you." Sherlock explained. "You mentioned you get peckish."

The doctor shook his head slightly in suspicion. "That's considerate of you, is it drugged?"

"No, drugs are too expensive."

John took it.

There seemed to be no gradual process of their relationship – one moment John was ready to meet a new patient, and the next said patient acted as though John was his property, and down to every ridiculous idea he had.

And yet, John _was_ down to whatever they were about to do. Which was strange because John wasn't generally a trusting person, and Sherlock wasn't someone who ignited trust in other people.

Still, he did not want to go home. And then Sherlock made it so that he didn't.

"How large is this equipment?" John inquired.

"Some of it is massive, but we'll take what we can carry. There are some materials I couldn't purchase in my own person, so they're mostly just containers and jars; I've got a duffel bag for them."

"Illegal substances, huh?" John asked nonchalantly.

"I suppose." Sherlock shrugged.

"Fine, if I'm helping you _steal_, would you care to answer some questions?"

"Don't worry, I know how to properly handle them, nothing will explode."

"Expl… No, I mean, personal questions. The things we are supposed to be talking about. You know, to make you better?"

"I _am_ better."

John smiled at that. "Yes, but would it hurt to tell me more about some of the things? It will take some time until we reach the place."

"Fine."

"Really?"

"Yes, just ask already."

"Can you tell me more about…" John stopped talking. Perhaps it was better to talk as a friend, not as a doctor. "You mentioned you had a boyfriend in university. Would you-"

"Not boyfriend." Sherlock corrected. "We were friends – not the kind of friend you see every day, but we would meet on occasion to discuss some things, as he was almost as brilliant as I was, I rather enjoyed it. Everyone else around me was an idiot, but Victor was more or less an educated guy. When he suggested we went physical, I took the chance as I was rather curious to see what it was like, and since I knew Victor would not expect anything more from me, it was a rather good arrangement. He knew what I'm like, and I suppose for a while that was enough for him. I'm not a sentimental person. I don't regret it, nor do I want something like that again."

"Have you ever been physically close with someone else after that?"

"No." Sherlock replied. "I don't like people touching me, or putting myself into situations where I depend on someone else. I wouldn't trust another person to such an extent again. It's unnecessary clutter in one's head, one thing I try to avoid."

"I see. But you do feel physical attraction?"

"Am I capable of that – yes. Do I let myself dwell upon it – no."

"I see." John nodded.

"What about you?" Sherlock unexpectedly asked.

"Hmm?"

"You're single, but that's not your desired position, is it?"

John was unsure how to reply. Was he going to be honest and personal, or give Sherlock a polite, but simple answer? The man never seemed to be interested in other people a lot – it was nice for John to see him engaging in such a conversation.

"No, I love being in a relationship." John admitted. "Hell, I need it. I guess I'm just the kind of guy who genuinely loves all the handholding and snuggling nonsense, and unlike you, I don't feel complete by myself. That other person makes the biggest difference in what I feel like every day."

"But why are you single then?" Sherlock met John's gazed. He looked confused.

"It's not like I have ladies waiting for me in an orderly queue." John sighed. "I think doing what I do for a living makes me a lousy boyfriend, too."

"Lousy how?"

"Uhm… You know, always working or worrying about work, not being able to turn off that psychiatrist mode, saying things they don't want to hear. And – I'm boring. Forty-two and boring, in fact. Let's not forget, short. Bit ironic, isn't it?"

"What is?"

"Nothing." John shook his head. If he had Sherlock's appearance and wealth, things would go so much easier in the women department. He was not jealous, only slightly irritated that things were this way, and not another. If only he could not give a damn about relationships! But John felt as though there was a hole in his heart, and having no one to fill it, was like having an ache that was weak, but wouldn't go away no matter what, and slowly drove him mad. There was not a moment of happiness in which his mind wouldn't whisper: _pity you can't share it with anyone_.

"But you're otherwise physically attractive." Sherlock said, making John lose his train of thought. "Even with the height disadvantage. Your skill to see into person's moods and needs is also a pro in a relationship. I don't understand what the problem is."

"You think so? Thanks, that's… That's nice to hear. Although there's never logic in these things I suppose." John said, feeling flattered. When was the last time he had gotten a compliment? And such an honest one at that…

Sherlock pulled out his phone and they sat in silence for the rest of the trip. John ate some of the chocolate, watching the lights pass outside the window, strangely happy about the situation he was in. Sure, it wasn't what he thought he would be doing on Friday night, but it sure beat the original plan.

* * *

It was about 10 pm when they finally reached Cardiff, and the car stopped about fifteen minutes later near some warehouse buildings, surrounded by a tall wire fence. They got out, and Sherlock told James, the driver, to wait with the trunk open, before grabbing John by the sleeve and pulling him towards the gate.

"C'mon!" He rushed excitedly, his eyes glistening with enthusiasm. When they finally reached the entrance, he sifted through the bundle of keys while John stood beside, his hands stuffed in his pockets, moving back and forth on his heels.

"That's strange." Sherlock said.

"Huh?"

"There's no key for the gate here." he glanced upwards. "You think we can make the climb?"

John followed his gaze. "No. Absolutely not."

The dark haired man gave John a smirk before he entwined his fingers with the weave of the fence and placed his foot against the metal surface, trying to find a spot that provided friction. As he lifted up both of his feet, his coat was left dangling like a cape. John watched him climb.

The fence was not tall, but was difficult to hold onto. Nevertheless, Sherlock managed to reach the top, and jump down on the other side with a loud thud. He turned around and looked at John through the holes in the barrier.

"Come on." He motioned for John to climb. The doctor shook his head.

"No bloody way."

"Oh for the love of God, John it's not that high." He hissed, keeping his voice down.

"I'll wait for you here."

"No, I need you helping me inside." He pressed his face to the fence, his nose peeping out on the other side.

"Fuck this." John muttered, grasping the net of the fence with both of his hands firmly before attempting to advance upwards. Sherlock watched with glee as he struggled, finally reaching the top.

"Do you need help getting down?"

"I'm not a fucking cat, just stand back." John warned him, before jumping down. As he hit the ground, he extended his hand for support and skinned his palm. "Shit." he cursed, standing up and shaking it violently as though he could lessen the pain that way.

"Okay, let's go." Sherlock urged, and they both went for the warehouse on the left side.

"There's no security here?" John asked cautiously, irritated by his bleeding palm. "Fuck, I don't want to get blood on these jeans."

"No, it's not that of an important storage facility. There's an alarm on the door, but I can guess the code." He removed his scarf from the neck in one swift movement and extended it to John as they walked in fast pace. "Here, wrap around your hand."

"_Guess_ the code? But… " he took the blue garment, glancing at Sherlock with surprise. "Hey, this is looks expensive; I don't want to return it to you with blood stains."

"Keep it, then. It's yours. Now shut up." They had finally reached the door and Sherlock opened the alarm panel. He closed his eyes for a while, concentrating, before he pushed in the code, spreading his fingers in the air as the device beeped.

"Good, we're in." he announced, and they both made their way inside, automatic lights flickering on the ceiling.

The area inside was quite large, filled with all kinds of boxes, apparatuses, equipment, shelves and cases. Sherlock dashed towards one particular corner, almost bouncing with joy.

"Err…" John looked around. "Do you want me to do something?"

"Yes." Sherlock tossed him the duffel bag and pointed at some small containers nearby. "Get five of those."

They spend a good twenty minutes collecting various things John did not bother asking about. Once the bag and their pockets were full, they went outside and locked the doors, heading back to the fence. John climbed over first, this time without difficulty, and caught the bag that Sherlock tossed from the top; they made their way to the car and John place the bag in the trunk.

"Well, there goes my law-abiding reputation." John sighed as he closed it. He looked at his phone to check the time. It was almost midnight. "Why did we have to go all the way to Cardiff?"

"I told you, it's close to the University." Sherlock pulled out a box of smokes and lit a cigarette while leaning against the side of the car. Now that he was well-dressed and groomed, it had a whole different effect on his presence.

"Oh God." John moaned. "Don't tell me you used to teach… Those poor children!"

Sherlock glared at him. "Not me. Moriarty is a professor in London, but he does sometimes work elsewhere. These materials are rare. Sort of." he inhaled deeply.

John never smoked himself, but he did not find the smell revolting – the only concern he had was about the health side of it – but it was not the time to address that matter yet.

"Is your driver really okay with working such overtime?"

Sherlock shrugged. He did not care. He blew out the smoke into the air, and for a while no one said a word. John watched the clouds of grey disappear into the damp darkness of the night, feeling, for reasons unknown, perfectly cosy in that man's company. He thought that the feeling was probably mutual.

"I'm going to London tomorrow to retrieve some of my old papers." Sherlock said. "I suppose if I start working and they see the progress, they're bound to take me in again."

"I think that's the best strategy now." John agreed. He had Sherlock's scarf in his sticking out of his pocket. "I'll get this cleaned."

"I've got others, don't worry." Sherlock dropped the cigarette butt on the pavement and crushed it with his shoe. He opened the door and let John get in first, before getting in himself.

The ride back was mostly silent. John glanced at Sherlock a few times, but he was probably thinking about work, judging from his facial expression. John had already spent enough time to recognise the _thinking-face, _knowing it was best not to disturb him, as he would probably he ignored anyway.

John pulled out his phone, but no one had called or texted, so he launched the poker app, and spend the rest of the trip eating chocolate and playing. He offered Sherlock a piece once, but as suspected, there was no response. In the beginning of their acquaintance, John might have thought such behaviour was rude, but now he was just used to it.

It was strange how easily he did so.

* * *

When they reached the vicinity of London, John tapped on the partition that separated the backseat from the driver and it opened.

"Hey James, where do you live?" John asked.

"Here in London, sir."

John glanced at Sherlock "Let him get some shut-eye, will you? It's three bloody am in the morning. You could get a cab or stay at my place until morning. You've got that thing at London University tomorrow?"

"I do." Sherlock said. He furrowed his eyebrows for a second, before answering "I guess it's only a few hours until the doors open, I'll stay at your place, if it's no trouble."

John gave James his address and he dropped them off by the door to John's flat building.

"Now, my flat's not exactly fancy…" John warned him, as they made their way upstairs to the third floor. The stairway smelled heavily of smoke, various foods prepared in different flats, piss and some fierce heavily chlorinated cleaning fluid.

He unlocked the door after he fished out his keys and opened it for Sherlock. Once inside, John flicked on the lights and took off his jacket, hanging it on his regular spot on the rack. Sherlock stood motionless, looking around.

John was very clean and tidy – he even felt embarrassed when he saw Sherlock notice the books had been arranged according to colour. He kept the flat's furniture to a minimum – there were no decorations or plants. Every object had a purpose.

"It's not much…" John said, walking to the kitchen. "Do you want some tea?"

"No, thank you." Sherlock replied. John heard the fabric of Sherlock's coat rustle, and then a moment later a creak of the sofa was audible from the sitting room.

John prepared himself a cup of tea and grabbed a few biscuits, placing them on the saucer. It has been an extremely long time since he had guests. There was simply not much to do in his flat. If it was a family gathering, they would almost always meet at Harriet's. If he met up with friends, they would much more likely to go to the pub. As for dates, there was no reason to bring them to the flat so far away from London centre, other than to shag.

Which, much to John's dismay, had not happened in a long while.

He walked over to the room where Sherlock was, wondering if he'd like to watch some television. It felt rather strange not to be alone in his flat at this time of night, but John was not feeling particularly drowsy, so he figured he could wait until morning.

When he entered the sitting room, however, he found Sherlock on the sofa, asleep.

He looked rather ridiculous in this way, John thought humorously. Sherlock was curled into a ball like an overgrown child, his cheek pressed against the armrest, mouth open; the comical effect only intensified due to the fact that he was wearing such a sophisticated suit and a shirt.

John brought him a spare blanket from the wardrobe in his bedroom, and as he tossed on Sherlock's side, the man's eyes shot open, wandering the room and finally settling on John's figure in front of him.

"Here's a blanket." John said. "I'll turn off the light, get some rest."

Sherlock wriggled until he managed to wrap himself up with the cover, burrowing underneath until only his dark curls and eyes were visible. He looked at John once more before he curled into a tighter ball and closed his eyes. His breathing slowed down, and he was asleep again. As promised John turned off the light and closed the door behind him, heading towards the bathroom.

He cleaned the wound on his hand in the bright light above the sink, smiling to himself like a child. He felt great.

* * *

**Author's note: **just a friendly reminder that the story will eventually change into M rated. Maybe not in the next chapter, maybe not in the next next, but it's coming. I'm not going to give a warning on specific chapters, as I think it would take away the suspense, so be warned.

The lyrics at the beginning are from _Pink Floyd - Brain Damage_

What do you think of the boys' relationship thus far?

**edit:** also, did you happen to catch the tiny The Office UK reference?


	8. Entanglement Begins

**Author's note: **Thank you all for reviewing/faving! This chapter was a difficult one to write - quite a few things needed to happen, or not happen. I do hope you enjoy it!

* * *

**Chapter 8: Entanglement Begins**

* * *

It was nine am in the morning when John stepped outside of his flat building, in nothing but shorts, shirt and trainers shielding him from the cold autumn weather. There was very little wind among the walls of the buildings, but as soon as he emerged from the tunnels into an open space, frosty gusts nibbled on his skin, forcing him to run faster. He jogged the same route each morning, ten kilometres that started and ended at his flat door. Afterwards, he would do some push-ups and other exercises in his bedroom, but the morning run was his favourite part of the workout.

He left Sherlock a note in case he woke up while John was away. _Out jogging, help yourself to some food or tea._

It was raining that day – but John decided not to let it stop him. As he warmed up, the cool drops felt pleasant on his skin, soaking through his shirt. With each step, his head felt clearer and thoughts less dense – it was just him, and the cold, damp pavement underneath his feet.

Last night had been rather strange (_and_, John added, _possibly illegal_), but it was even stranger to know Sherlock was in his flat right now, with the potential of telling John's life story from all the clues it provided him.

The doctor did not know whether it was a good or a bad thing that there was nothing particularly interesting or embarrassing that Sherlock could have found among his things. He, John Watson, was a simple guy.

* * *

When he came back, he found Sherlock in the kitchen, blanket wrapped around his body like a cocoon or a cloak. He was brewing tea, his hand awkwardly sticking out through the gap between two ends of the blanket and moving the teabag downwards and upwards into the hot water of the cup.

"Good morning" John said, heading towards the washing machine that, as a result of a small bathroom, was in his kitchen.

"Morning." Sherlock replied, without turning to look. His hair was in complete disarray compared to yesterday, but he looked otherwise good and appeared to have slept well. He usually had dark bags underneath the eyes – but now John could see nothing but a slightly puffy face, betraying that the man had awaken quite recently. The doctor had no idea how he managed to look so manly and childish at the very same time.

John peeled off the wet shirt from himself, tossed it inside the washer and shook his head like a dog. His muscles were tense from the physical exercise and the cool air of the room. "Bloody rain." he muttered, walking over to the table where Sherlock was adding sugar to his drink.

Their shoulders brushed and Sherlock involuntarily turned to look at John, who stood right next to him, bare-chested.

"Make a cup for me, yeah?" John smiled briefly, grabbing a small biscuit from the platter and sticking it into his mouth. He licked the crumbs from his lips, glancing back at the other man. "I'll pop in the shower real quick meanwhile."

Sherlock's lips parted, but he remained mute. He glanced at John's naked torso and then into John's eyes, giving him a look that made the whole room's temperature go up ten degrees.

John blushed. He did not even know he was capable of that anymore, but as he felt blood rush into his face, he realised what was happening. He was definitely turning red.

It was, perhaps, not a very good idea to walk around shirtless in front of a guy who likes men.

John fled to the shower, mentally slapping himself.

He never considered himself to be visually appealing. Not in a way that he had just been looked at, anyway. He tried picturing himself in Sherlock's place, having a woman take off her shirt in front of him like that. It wouldn't even have to be an attractive woman. He wouldn't be looking at her _face_, anyhow.

_Oh God_, he thought. _That was really not the wisest thing I've done._ He slid out of his shorts and pants, throwing them in the bin with the other dirty clothes and looked in the mirror. Loneliness had really gotten him into exercise. He ran his hand down his abs, posing in front of the mirror like he hadn't done in years.

Women don't check out men like that, do they? John never noticed such a thing happening. They might have been discreet about it, or cared about a man's body less – all John knew was that he never felt like being topless was anything more than wearing short sleeves. Until now. Now he felt like having done something very inappropriate.

He jumped into the shower, trying not to think about it further.

* * *

John got fully dressed before he went into the kitchen again and took the tea Sherlock had prepared for him. He took a sip. It was awful.

Sherlock himself sat behind the table, reading something on his phone. He was still in the blanket but it had slid off, and John could see he was still in the suit from yesterday.

"Your neighbour from upstairs is cheating on her husband." Sherlock said. "I could tell by the footsteps – two different men."

"Could have been some guy friend?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Jumping on bed for fun?"

John grinned. "You know, you used to wait for me to ask before explaining your… well, deductions – now you just tell me."

"I know you'll ask. You always ask."

John sat by the table in front of him. "Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

"I don't mind." he said, taking a gulp of the tea. "This is terrible."

"This is good tea; you just don't know how to prepare it." John replied.

Sherlock glared at him.

John licked his lips. "Look, uh, sorry about earlier- that was a bit inappropriate."

"What are you talking about?"

Was he playing dumb or did he really not know? Was John worrying for nothing? He began to suspect he was massively over-reacting_. I look at cleavage, don't I?_ He thought_. Doesn't mean anything._

"Never mind." he said, and Sherlock raised a suspicious brow. John felt like a paranoid idiot. Even though he knew Sherlock liked men, he saw him rather like an uninterested asexual – and that glance, if only brief, made him re-think that fact. John never had problems with homosexual people – his sister was a lesbian, after all. And looking at Sherlock now, staring at his phone and completely indifferent, John began to think he was just making the whole thing up.

_Clearly he said himself he was not interested in those things. _

_And if he was,_ John reasoned, _it obviously wouldn't be guys like me._

He did not think on it further. To John, such logic was full-proof.

He would not admit to himself in a million years, that the relief he felt after he came to the conclusion was not at all unaffected by the slight, traitorous disappointment.

* * *

After Sherlock had left on Saturday morning, John spent another plain weekend by himself, drinking a few beers, looking at pictures of cats in funny hats on the internet (it made him feel _youthful_), reading a few books and wanking to some average free porn a couple of times before microwaving a cheap frozen Tesco pizza and catching up with some American TV shows while trying not to spill the sauce on his pyjamas.

_You are a classy guy, John_, he told himself, reflecting on his weekend on Monday morning, as he was sitting in his office, ready to meet the new patient Stamford would not shut up about. She arrived late – as the door finally opened John closed the tab to the humour site he was browsing, standing up to meet her.

Irene Adler was an impressive-looking woman. She was both rich and elegant, just as Stamford had described her, but there was so much more to her appearance than that. She was thin, dressed in a tight, black dress with an emphasis to her surrealistically slim waist; her eyes were big, blue, framed by thick dark lashes that went on for miles. Her dark hair was styled into a bun on the top of her head that seemed official rather than casual; her lips were blood red, matching her longs nails that stood out in the pale colour of the room, seductive but sophisticated. She must have been shorter than John, if not for her platform heels, which reminded John of stilts.

She was not at all John's type, but he could sense the dark allure she carried around her like an aura – a real _femme fatale_, if one was feeling like using big words.

"Hello, doctor." She said, in a very beautiful, silvery voice.

"Good day, Ms Adler." John greeted, standing up from his desk and motioning her to sit down on the daybed. As she did so, John sat on his usual chair in front, clasping his hands together.

"There is no record in your medical file from any other specialist in this field." John said. "I take it this is your first time seeking psychological care?"

"It is." She smiled briefly, her gaze intense. She was looking John in the eyes.

"I see. Well, with other patients who had a similar problem, we would usually start with trying to determine the best possible medicine-"

She put her hand on John's lap. "I'd rather we just talked." she purred.

John did not react to her gesture. Here, in his office, there was not a force in the world that could have affected John's professional behaviour.

"Of course." John replied. "It is a big step – to seek help. May I ask if you decided to do this by yourself, or did someone suggest it to you?"

She removed her hand, but not before her fingertips lingered for one more second, as though feeling the fabric of John's trousers.

"A friend." she crossed her legs slowly. "If one can help Sherlock Holmes, one must know _very_ well what he's doing. And I only go for the very best."

"You know Mr Holmes personally?" John asked politely.

"Sadly, no. I would like to, one day. I heard he is a remarkable man." She leaned back.

John nodded, opening his notebook. On the first session, he would ask simpler questions – saving the real important ones for when the patient would grow to trust him more. For most people, that was a very important factor, although not everyone's open-mindedness was a sign of trust. Some people were naturally talkative – others were not. Irene replied to his questions without difficulty, giving detailed answers, studying his face in return as she did so. It reminded John slightly of the way Sherlock would look at him, although the feeling it gave the doctor could not have been different.

Irene claimed to be a self-diagnosed nymphomaniac, which meant that she had instable desire for sexual satisfaction, seeking multiple sex partners and being detached in the relationships formed. She said that to her, that was the only form of self-validation – catching the next "high" wherever she may find it, ignoring the consequences. There was no shame in her voice as she told John about the extensive list of her partners, both female and male, a pleasant ring in her tone appearing whenever a spicier detail was revealed.

In John's entire career, he never met a woman who spoke so easily about such matters.

* * *

"Well, Ms Adler" John said at the end of the session, during which he mostly listened to her talk "I cannot yet diagnose you, but a few more sessions might be enough to decide which steps are best taken next. I would also like for you to get these tests done" he gave her a card with a list, all for checking for hormone imbalance. It was either physical or psychological – but it was important for them to talk either way. "and I will see you next week?" he gave her his card along with the test list. She took them.

As Irene was leaving, she turned back to give John one last look. "It's a shame things are this way." she said, leaving before John could ask what she meant.

He stared at the door for a while, slightly confused, before he glanced at the watch on his wrist, realising he had better eat now, if he doesn't want to be late for Sherlock's session.

There was a small café just across the street from the clinic. John sat by his usual table, not bothering to look at the menu. He knew what he'll be having.

The woman he had just talked to was, just like Sherlock, from a completely different social environment than his usual patients. He did not know how to feel about it. All he knew was that it was not a coincidence, but how exactly the two were related was still a mystery. Perhaps, he should ask Sherlock when they meet a few hours later.

Just as the waiter brought his food, John's phone beeped.

_Could we postpone today's session? –SH_

_Why? –JW_

_Could we, or could we not? –SH_

_Is everything alright? –JW_

_No. –SH_

_I'm St Bart's. –SH_

John's hands began to shake.

_Why? –JW_

_Did you hurt yourself? –JW_

_Sherlock please text back… -JW_

_No, I have acute chemical pneumonitis. –SH_

John sighed, slightly relieved. Chemical pneumonitis was swelling of the lungs. It could happen after breathing in certain chemicals, dusts, or fumes that cause lung irritation or damage.

_Was doing an experiment. –SH_

Just as John thought. So, accidental damage. That was better. Not good, but better.

_Oh God. Are you okay now? –JW_

_That was yesterday. I thought they'd let me go by today, but they insist I stay until tomorrow. –SH_

_Why didn't you text me yesterday, then? –JW_

_Why would I have? –SH_

_That's what people do. –JW_

_But you're not that kind of doctor. –SH_

_No, I mean, people tell their friends when they're taken to a hospital. –JW_

_I wasn't aware you've changed your mind. –SH_

_Changed my mind? –JW_

_Oh, I see. –JW_

_Look, I can come visit you, if you'd like. –JW_

_No. –SH_

_Are you sure? –JW_

_Yes. –SH_

_Unless you could bring me the papers I was supposed to pick up today. –SH_

_Where are they? –JW_

_University of London, main building. –SH_

_Ask for Jim Moriarty, he has them. –SH_

_Okay. –JW_

_What papers are those, exactly? –JW_

_He'll know. –SH_

_Yes, alright. –JW_

_Thank you. –SH_

_That's what friends are for. –JW_

_Text me next time something happens to you, for God's sake. –JW_

_I vomited again just a minute ago. –SH_

_NOT that kind of happening, you wanker. –JW_

He put the phone in his pocket, and having finished his meal, hailed a cab and headed to University of London to meet Professor James Moriarty in Sherlock's place.

* * *

**Author's note: **finally, we'll get to see just what kind of man this Jim Moriarty is. And perhaps, a little bit of comforting the poor poisoned scientist. As always, if you like the story please review it! It's the only thing that tells me people are reading and enjoying my work, making me want to continue.


	9. Momentarily Engaged

**Chapter 9: Momentarily Engaged**

* * *

"Ah, of course. If one buys a dog, might as well train it to bring the paper."

Jim Moriarty sat behind a large desk is his office, as though a king in the throne room; his fingers lied gently on the keyboard, having ceased to move as soon as the door opened, sharp gaze quickly finding John's eyes, its intensity draining the doctor, as though happiness was being pulled from him; cold crept from the floor, climbing John's legs – he felt as though having left today and entered another time – so quickly had everything changed.

The office itself was very grand – tall ceilings, thick, heavy, blood-red draperies framing the large windows; large shelves filled with volumes of one-colour encyclopedias with golden writing stood with their backs against the dark crimson walls. A ceiling light illuminated everything in a sickly yellow tone, a smell of leather and tobacco in the air.

"I take it you know which papers to give, then." the doctor said, without taking the time for greetings.

"His locker." Jim replied, tossing John the key. He caught it. Moriarty looked back at his computer screen, resuming typing. "Good boy." he grinned, and John bit his lip, a colourful variety of swears at the tip of his tongue.

John left the office without saying anything else, and as the door closed behind him, it felt like a dark cloud had evaporated from above his head. There was something about that man John could not quite describe in words – something dark, sinister, but hiding from the eyes under an elegant façade of perfectly tailored suit and opulent interior of the office. The doctor felt like he was covered in some kind of black slime from the man's look alone – he walked down the corridor, trying to mentally shake it off.

He was not sure where the lockers were – John decided to ask the first person he met, instead of staying for one more minute in Moriarty's office. Luckily for him, the first face he saw as he turned the corner was not at all unfamiliar.

"Ms… Molly?" John called, realising he did not know her last name. The girl in the pony tail and a mid-length, beige dress tuned to look at him. She was wearing a dark scarf around her neck, and carried a tall stack of papers that seemed to have blocked her view as she was heading towards a large door before John's voice stopped her.

The doctor thought she looked shy, even awkward – but in a way she was cute, and her gaze was warm.

"Mr Watson." She smiled without showing teeth, her eyes inquiring. John stepped closer, watching the document tower in her hands wobble unstably.

"Can you tell me…" the top of the stack slid of, Molly gasped; John caught it quickly, holding the rest in place at the same time. "Allow me to help you." he offered. "In return, you can show me where the locker room is."

She looked at him in surprise, and nodded, leading the way to the room in front of them.

Once inside, Molly placed the papers on a desk beside the door and John did the same. The room looked like some kind of archive, filled with document cabinets and dust.

"Thank you." Molly said.

"Don't mention it." John smiled at her. "Listen, I have the key to Sherlock's locker, but… I've no idea where-"

"Oh! Yes, right, let me take you there."

They went back into the corridor, and went towards a locked door which Molly opened – it lead to a small staircase down, where Molly opened another door and lead John into a basement room, with tiny windows by the ceiling.

"Here you go." She said.

"Thank you. I… I don't know your last name, Ms…"

"Hooper. Molly Hooper, but just call me Molly."

"Well then you can call me John." the doctor said, looking for the locker number 43.

"I didn't know Sherlock had a locker here." she told him.

"I don't think he actually used it. Jim Moriarty gave me the key – I am here to retrieve some things for Sherlock." John finally found it. "He's a bit unstable, isn't he, Moriarty?" he remarked, looking back at the girl.

"They both are." Molly replied. "But they're brilliant – everyone says so."

"You think they're alike?"

"In some ways."

"In no way."

Molly's eyes grew wider with curiosity.

"Who are you to him?"

"His psychiatrist."

"Who else?"

"His friend."

"I was told he doesn't have friends."

"It takes a bit of work with him, yes."

"You think I haven't tried…" she looked down at her feet, his fingers nervously playing with the ends of her scarf. "He won't let anyone near. I can see him when he's sad, lonely; but every time I try to be there for him, he only… pushes me away, as though care was somehow disgusting to him – as though someone caring for him was shameful… I don't know what makes you different in his eyes, but clearly you and I know a whole different man. He mentioned you to me, when we were working – he told me about the chemicals you both _stole_ from the warehouse-"

John cleared his throat.

"-and the way he speaks about you, it was so strange but I see it now, even if I don't know you Mr Watson – John – you matter to him, in a way no one does. He speaks about you not as an individual man, but as a part of his life – part of him. And he doesn't share. He never shares."

"I… We've only known each other for few weeks."

"And I have known him for years. But has he told you about me, even mentioned me? And you see, that's how he is. But then you came along, and he just said to me 'John did this and that' as though the whole world was aware of who _John_ is. It's strange, is it not?" She suddenly shook her head. "Sorry. I shouldn't be talking about this, you don't even know who I am and-"

"That's okay." John replied.

In the locker, he found a grey folder with some documents, a hand-size black box, a notebook and various pens.

"I am glad there are people who care for him." the doctor added. "He doesn't know how to show appreciation. We have just have to accept that, don't we?"

It was strange, John thought. He barely knew this girl, and yet there was such mutual understanding between them.

John took everything from the locker, leaving the key on his way back.

* * *

Sherlock lied on the hospital bed, his dark hair contrasting with the white sheets, his face slightly puffy around the eyes, his lips paler than usual, but he did not look as bad as John thought he would, possibly because a long time as passed since he was taken into the emergency room. His facial expression was the look of an annoyed five year old. As soon as John walked in, Sherlock extended his hand, without saying a word.

"Here are the documents." John gave Sherlock the folder, which he immediately took. He slid his long fingers inside and pulled out some papers, his irises quickly moving from side to side, skimming through it.

John looked around the single ward, awkwardly torn between leaving and sitting down near the bed. "Do you want me to stay?" he asked, but Sherlock did not answer him. Instead, the scientist kept on going through the papers, the wrinkle on his forehead deepening. Seconds after, he threw the folder on the ground and fell on his back onto the bed dramatically, bouncing twice on the mattress from the excess force. He ran his palms down his face, groaning.

"Everything alright?" John asked, taking a seat.

"Damn this!" Sherlock kicked the cover off of himself petulantly and crossed his arms on his chest, his legs straight and still like two logs. He then coughed and glared at John, as though seeing him for the first time. "He got the financing. If I work with him, that is. It's right _there, _the money, the equipment!"

"Yeah, I see why you're so unwilling to work with him." John told him.

"How would you know?" Sherlock snapped.

"I met him, you know, _when I went to get these papers for you_." John said slowly. "He's a real tosser."

Sherlock sat up for a moment, grabbed hold of the cover's corner and dragged it up onto himself while lying down, until he was fully under, even his face. He then said something, but John could not make out what it was. The doctor reached out and pulled the cover back down gently from the man's face, until he could see Sherlock's eyes. They were wide.

"Should I stay?" John asked.

"I don't want to talk about that boring stuff you ask me about." Sherlock replied, his voice still muffled by the over, but now intelligible. His gaze was piercing, studying John's face.

"That's okay. We can switch on the telly." John suggested.

"No." Sherlock slid down until his face was under the cover again. "It's rubbish."

"True but-"

Suddenly, Sherlock jumped up in the bed and grabbed hold on John's shoulders, his eyes glistening with mad frenzy. Startled, John stared back into his eyes, his heart jumping in his chest. Sherlock's grip on his shoulders was almost painfully tight.

"Get me out of here, John." he said, under his breath.

"You need medical care, Sherlock…"

"They specifically stated that a family member can get me discharged!"

"Then perhaps you should ask Mycroft. I'm not your family."

"Fiancée." Sherlock stated. "They'll have to consider that good enough." his face got closer as he spoke, a wild fire in his eyes.

"Wow, buy me a drink first." John scoffed, unconsciously backing away in his chair as Sherlock drew near, now on his knees in the bed.

"Just tell them. I'll tell you about my childhood! Sexual experiences! Anything, John, I can't stand this place." He urged.

"A fiancée is not immediate family."

"Yes, but it might be close enough! You're too young to be my father, too unlike me to be my brother, not to mention the last name. I'd say husband, but we're not wearing wedding rings, and that would raise suspicion, but a fiancée is almost like a husband, if you talk convincingly enough…"

"Okay, okay, I'll see what I can do." John peeled Sherlock's hands away and stood up. "Just give me a minute, alright?"

He left the ward feeling awfully bewildered by Sherlock's sudden attack on his poor jumper and shoulders. He was very rough, John noticed. Almost like a child that does not know when they're hurting others. The doctor could still feel the places on his skin where Sherlock's nails had dug into, as his warm breath tickled John's skin, so eager to get what he wants.

"I would like my… fiancée discharged." John told the female doctor, once he managed to find out who was responsible for the scientist's care. "Sherlock Holmes."

"I'm sorry, only immediate family members can do that." she replied, glancing only briefly at John, as though he was wasting her time.

"Listen." John started, in the best hopeless voice he could muster. "We're getting married in two weeks. He hates hospitals and people he doesn't know. He's got Asperger's. He'll be much better at home."

_God,_ he thought to himself, _now I'm also an avid liar._ How quickly he was on board with Sherlock's mad ideas was almost frightening. John was not quite confident in his lying skill either – especially when it came to things he never even imagined himself say.

The woman gave him a suspicious look. "So you live together?"

"Yes." John replied. "Look, I love him and I just want-"

"Fine fine. If you live together, that's not against the rules. You'll have to sign the form and I will give you instructions of how to take care of him. You can buy the prescribed medicine just downstairs."

John mentally rolled his eyes at his own voice just a second ago. He sounded so horribly unnatural, it was a wonder the woman didn't realise he was lying his arse off. But then again, she did not seem very concerned with the matter.

* * *

"Well?" Sherlock jumped up in the bed as both John and the female doctor who has been treating him walked inside.

"We're going home." John said. A wide grin shaped Sherlock's face.

"Excellent." he grinned, showing his big white teeth.

"Make sure he takes his medicine as instructed. They're corticosteroids." The woman told John, as though he was a father of a young child. "He doesn't look like the type who'll remember to do so himself."

"Right. Yes." John replied watching Sherlock climb out of the bed and dash towards the hanger on which his suit was, flashing them both with whatever was visible from the back of the hospital gown. John averted his eyes. "Okay, we'll give you some privacy. I'll wait outside."

Sherlock turned around suddenly, as though he had remembered something. With two big leaps he reached the door, and having grabbed John's head, landed a sloppy misplaced kiss somewhere on John's eyebrow, his lips pressing hard on John's skin, making a loud smacking sound. He pulled away immediately, his hands still at the back of John's head, giving him some kind of conspiring nod, as though he had just performed some kind of clever sham, and then headed back to his clothes.

John put on his best acting face and smiled briefly at the doctor while they both left Sherlock to dress. He felt his skin slightly wet where Sherlock's lips were and did his best to fight off the impulse to wipe it off. _What the hell?_

"I'm glad you're taking him home, actually. He's been harassing our staff the entire time." she told John when they both entered the hallway.

"Yeah, that sounds like him." John sighed.

"Congratulations, though."

"Eh?"

"On your marriage."

"Oh. _Right_. Yes, thank you."

* * *

"That was completely unconvincing." was the first thing John said, when he and now fully dressed Sherlock headed for the exit of the hospital, after buying Sherlock's medicine.

"What was?" he asked, and coughed again.

"The kiss."

"Oh. Should I have kissed you on the lips?" the younger man asked, in honest wonder.

"No. No. It was unnecessary altogether." John explained, horrified by Sherlock's question. "She had already bought that we're engaged."

"Did she?"

"Yes, she even congratulated me. With the way you must have treated the staff I think condolences were much more appropriate though."

"Strange." Sherlock mused.

"What?"

"You're a terrible liar. What did you tell her?"

"Ugh… That we're getting married in two weeks. That I love you and want you home, all that. Anyway, I _can_ lie."

"Under the same household… Of course." Sherlock noted. "You needn't have resorted to emotions, that alone would have been enough."

"Now you tell me. Fuck this. For you information I was _in character_."

Sherlock raised a brow, but his condescending grin was soon ruined by a violet cough. He stopped for a second, covering his mouth.

John waited for him uncomfortably, unsure what to do. The scientist soon resumed walking and they stepped outside finally, noticing it had already gone dark. There was a light drizzle, pleasantly cool on John's face as he looked up, eyes squinted.

"I'll call James to pick me up – dinner?" Sherlock offered, pulling up the collar of his coat.

"You're not going home." John protested. "I got you discharged on terms that I keep an eye on you."

"Oh, please, I can take care of myself."

John glared at him, _are-you-fucking-kidding-me_ written all over his face. Sherlock furrowed his brows.

"But do call James, so he can get your overnight bag, you know toothbrush, pyjamas, that kind of thing." John instructed.

"Don't be daft. I'm heading home."

"No." John said, his voice strict and unyielding. They looked into each other's eyes, sudden tension in the air. A staring contest ensued, hastened by the progressively bigger raindrops falling on their heads and shoulders. Sherlock coughed again, his face shaping in discomfort. It must have still hurt, John thought. He hailed a cab and as they both got inside, the doctor gave his address. Sherlock looked irritated, but did not protest.

As the cab began moving, neither said anything else. The doctor thought about the state his flat was in, wondering whether he had anything fit to eat. If not, he'll have to order something over the phone. No one should suffer his cooking, especially not after an injury.

John saw Sherlock sulking on the other side of the backseat in his parallel vision, and found himself strangely amused and rather emotionally stirred, remembering Molly's words.

How did he end up caring so much, so fast?

* * *

**Author's note**: that was my fav chapter to write so far! What did you think?


	10. Parallels

**Chapter 10: Parallels**

* * *

"Clara?"

She was standing by the door to John's flat, clutching a small handbag in her small pale hands. As she saw John and Sherlock approach, she nervously tidied up her long hair, looking at them with pink, swollen eyes. She tried to smile, but her eyes remained sad, filled with anxiety. Clara seemed so sad and lost - it went straight to John's kind heart.

"Hey, John." she spoke, her voice hoarse and silent, then turned to Sherlock and nodded. "Hello."

The doctor quickly walked up to her, placing his hand on her shoulder with intent to comfort the blonde woman, who seemed to be having trouble holding back tears.

"Hey, Clara. This is Sherlock." John introduced, not once looking away from her. Various scenarios went through his head ever since he saw her waiting for him. "What's wrong?"

"_Words with friends_ bloke?" the corners of her lips twitched, but then her eyes glistened with tears and she turned to John. "If it's a bad time I can come by another day."

"No no, it's okay." John assured, unlocking the door to the flat. All three of them walked inside. "Clara is my sister's flatmate." John told Sherlock, keeping Clara's secret. Not that Sherlock really cared, John thought, but it was the right thing to do nonetheless.

The doctor glanced at the clock. It was nine pm.

"So, uh…" both Sherlock and Clara turned to look at John, who suddenly felt like a performer on a stage, about to show some magic trick.

Except, John had no tricks. Here, he had two completely different people, none of which he had known three weeks ago, both here because of him. One of them was crying, the other – just glaring in annoyance.

"I guess I will order dinner for three then?" neither of the two said a word. John furrowed his brows. "Sherlock, will you give us a moment?" he looked at Clara. "Come, I'll make you a nice cuppa and you can tell me what's wrong."

John made them both tea and ordered a pizza online; some time during this he heard a series of loud thuds from the living room, like something was dropped on the ground every once in a while – John suspected it was Sherlock, on a quest to destroy whatever order the doctor had in his bookshelves. The blonde man sighed and shook his head. _Goodbye, colour-coordinated arrangement. _

He sat at the table across from the fidgeting woman, giving her a friendly smile in encouragement and placing tea he had prepared in front of her.

"It's Harry." Clara said, wrapping her small fingers around the cup John had given her.

"What happened?"

"She's… drinking… I, uh… I had my parents over the other weekend, and I still haven't told them I was dating her – when I called her my flatmate, I could tell she was pissed and when they left she- she drank the whole bottle of wine and told me I might as well _be_ just a flatmate! And God, I barely know you and you are her brother, but I needed to ask someone… What do I do?"

"She doesn't mean what she said." John assured. "Harriet's really hot-headed, she always says stuff like that, going all drama-queen, but she's just… Well, I suppose it's hard for her to understand you. She's been out since teenage years. Then again, it was pretty obvious, none of us were surprised…" he smiled, remembering how he himself reacted to Harriet's words that she was a lesbian. 'Duh' he said then, and that was the end of it. "But, you will have to tell your parents sooner or later, won't you? Maybe she just thinks until you do, you don't think you're serious?"

"Oh, but we are! I mean we even talked…" she seem slightly embarrassed. "We could get married someday. I'd like that."

"Well, I don't suppose she can propose to you without asking your father first, and for that…"

"Oh! Oh, but that's too soon!"

"Hey. This is Harry we're talking about. When did she ever wait too long for anything?"

Clara blushed slightly, and John knew that there was probably more than one story spinning in her head on Harry's lack of patience.

The kitchen's door opened and Sherlock walked in, headed straight for the kettle. He poured some tea in a cup he took from the sink, glancing at John and Clara sitting by the table, fallen silent since he entered the room. He squinted his eyes slightly, glancing at her hands and then left, his loud coughing betraying his route back to the living room.

John was hoping some of his things had survived Sherlock's invasion.

"Is there… something between you two?" Clara asked, after Sherlock had left the room, shooting one last glare at her.

"What?" John snorted. "No."

_Ridiculous_.

She gazed at the closed door, biting her lip, and then glanced at John for a second, before looking down at her cup, clever look in her eye.

"What?" John asked, now without a smile.

"I don't know I mean, the way he looked at me, it's seriously intimidating." She huffed. "That's how Harry looks like at men who try to flirt with me. Like, _back off, she's mine_, kind of thing, you know?"

John shook his head, smiling.

"No, that's just how he looks at people."

"Hm, I don't see him looking at you like that."

"No he's just… possessive of me-" John stop mid-sentence. "Jesus, that sounded wrong." he sighed. "I don't think he's ever seen me with someone before, he might as well think he's the only person in my life."

"You might want to work on your speech there." she grinned. "It sounds like Sherlock's smitten by his doctor and jealous of the woman he's comforting in his kitchen."

"_Smitten_? You don't know Sherlock." John laughed.

Clara smiled sadly. "I guess" she took a sip of her tea. "I'll have to tell them. How do I even do that!"

"Chances are they already know." John suggested.

"No." She shook her head, light curls dancing as she did. "I've dated men before. They probably had no idea…"

"Really?"

"Yeah. I mean, even if I tell them I love Harry, they will go on about grandchildren, and how dating a man would be _natural_ and all that… And I used to be the same way!" she started crying again. "I… I even got almost engaged to a man once… Wouldn't think, wouldn't… Wouldn't even consider being with a woman, denied everything. Because it was okay, dating guys. But then I met Harriet and it was just… so much more. I was already over thirty, how could I only find it out then? But that's how it was and… Now, I don't know what to do."

"I think you need to tell them either way." John said. "They might not accept it, but it's their problem. As for Harry, she's like a hurricane sometimes. I think she needs you to be calm where she cannot. You know, all that _yin yang_ thing."

She was silent for a while, a wrinkle of her forehead betraying deep thought.

"Yeah. But you're not like her, are you John?" she asked him. "You're more like me."

"Not as beautiful though." John grinned.

* * *

He walked her out after they had some pizza (Sherlock claimed he was not hungry), assuring that everything will be fine. She said goodbye to him and got inside a cab. John watched it disappear behind a corner, hoping that everything will work out well for the two of them.

When he returned to his flat, he heard the water in the shower running, and headed back into the kitchen where his laptop was. He poured himself another cup of black tea, turning on the computer. There were a few e-mails he had to reply to, but he kept thinking about his conversation with Clara. People trusted him, it seemed. He could only hope he had given her good advice.

About fifteen minutes later John heard the creak of the floorboards behind his back – soft, slow footsteps of naked feet, getting closer and closer. He stared at the screen of his laptop, absent-mindedly watching the ads change at the top of the page. John was not sure what he was thinking about – something about his sister, the faulty faucet in the kitchen that needed repair, last week's football game – he only felt those obscure thoughts disappear as warm fingers landed on his left hand, which in return rested on the mouse, and soft wet curls brushed against his ear lobe, the strong, intoxicating smell of cologne filling his nose.

"I need to look something up online." the deep voice spoke close to John's ear, warm breath touching his skin as he felt Sherlock press himself to the doctor's back from behind.

It was about eleven in the evening of the same Monday on which he met Irene Adler – an end to a very long, exhausting day. It was almost unbelievable how much had happened since he got out of bed today. He felt tired, vulnerable, and weak at the knees. _Is Google making us stupid?_ Was the headline of the third ridiculous piece of writing he was just about to read when he was stopped by Sherlock's appearance behind his back.

Sherlock's hand guided John's and with it – the mouse, and upon pushing down John's index finger, opened a new tab in the browser.

"Baryon number of a quark." he asked. John typed it into the search bar. Sherlock clicked he third Google result and scrolled down.

"This for work?" John asked, Sherlock's fingers gliding up the doctor's hand. His smooth cheek brushed against John's stubble, the sharp bone hard against John's skin. For a second, John's whole body went numb.

"Yes. I am thinking over a new hypothesis about quarks." he replied, voice low, like a purr. He found the number 1/3 and, slipping his finger between John's index and middle ones, scrolled down on the page with the mouse wheel.

"I thought you were going through my books, how did you end up at… particles?" John asked, looking directly in front of himself, uncomfortable, but trying not to say anything, in fear of sounding abrupt. Sherlock did not know how to respect people's boundaries, but he also had a strong sense of his own – John figured if he was willing to invade John's space, it meant that he was comfortable with John. So in a way, it was good.

In a much less professional sense, it was very awkward for John. Was it someone else, the doctor would have most likely pulled away or even told them to back off. On the other hand, most people would know better than to do something like this.

John mentally shook his head. _Sherlock_ doesn't know. No point in pointing out how socially inept he is. _That_ he probably knows.

It's okay, John thought. It's just hands. There's no need to treat it as more. He felt tiny drops of water fall from Sherlock's damp hair onto his skin and shuddered at the sensation.

"Oh, all of your books are boring. Detective novels, really?" Sherlock scoffed. In fear or accidental nose-cheek contact, John did not turn his head to look at his face, but the doctor was sure the expression must have been contemptuous.

"I like detectives." he said.

_What is that cologne? It smells like someone liquefied arrogance and bottled it up. _John took a deep breath. It was one of the first things he remembered from their meeting in the café, where his badly groomed patient turned out to be a sharply dressed gentleman_, à la_ Cinderella style.

John let out a short huff, amused by his own comparison. _What sort of man uses cologne before bed anyway?_

Sherlock pulled away, and John, finally released from his prison of discomfort, turned to speak to him.

"You always think about physics when in the shower?"

"What would you'd rather I think about?" Sherlock raised a brow.

John cleared his throat. "Forget I said anything."

Sherlock took a seat behind the table and grabbed a slice of the cold pizza.

"She's sleeping with a woman." he suddenly said.

"Yes, I know." John replied. "But how do you?"

"Her nails. Most of them are longer but the two which-"

"Ah no!" John said out loud. "I don't want to hear about my sister's sex life, thank you!"

"Your _sister's_? Oh. Obvious. She came for relationship advice, did she?" he sneered.

"And why's that funny?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Okay, yes. I'm not doing very well myself, but I know Harry. So there. I _can_ give good advice."

For a second, both were silent.

"Why didn't you come eat the pizza with us?"

"The quicker you'd talk, the sooner she'd left, and if I was there, she wouldn't have talked."

"Wow." John raised his brows. "I don't know whether to feel flattered or emigrate to another continent."

"_Flattered_?" Sherlock frowned.

John grinned. He absolutely loved making Sherlock confused. That wrinkle of his nose when he would not understand was absolutely adorable.

"For someone who hates everyone you sure don't hate me." John remarked. Sherlock stood up so suddenly and abruptly, the whole table shook, the utensils on it making a loud clanking sound.

John's eyes grew wide. "You okay?"

"John, I hope you're not misinterpreting-"

The doctor stood up too, in panic.

"No! No, I mean really, no, I just meant, you know. Not that. No."

Sherlock swallowed audibly, his Adam's apple bobbing under his skin, tendons on his neck tensing for a second. "Okay."

John let Sherlock take his bed and he himself decided to sleep on the sofa that night. He took his pillow cover and sheet to the living room and placed a new set on the bed in his bedroom, trying not to think of himself as a mother taking care of a sick child. Sherlock made no comment on that arrangement.

* * *

"How do your lungs feel? Still coughing?" John asked Sherlock, as he walked into the living room later that night after John had taken a shower and curled in his blanket in front of the TV. It was around midnight, and the light was off – the dim glow of the show John was watching was the only illumination.

"A bit. Bit… sore… " Sherlock said, slowly walking into the room as though something could have jumped out of the dark and attacked him. He was carrying a pillow.

"Haven't vomited again?"

"No."

"I placed a bucket by the bed anyway. That's new carpet."

"What are you watching?"

"Just some Doctor Who." John shrugged. "You're a fan?"

"Never heard of it." Sherlock replied, walking over and sitting on the other side of the sofa, placing the pillow of his lap. "What's it about?"

"I don't think I can even begin to explain." John laughed. "Although the main bloke is supposedly very hot. What do you think?"

"Why are you asking me this?"

"Sorry, I just thought… You know, making small talk."

Sherlock looked at the screen where David Tennant was fighting yet another alien. He did not seem impressed.

Discussing women was one of the main topics when John hanged out with his friends. Clearly, he should not have attempted to apply the same pattern to Sherlock. But then again, what's so utterly inappropriate about inquiring about his tastes?

"That bucket is the villain?" Sherlock scoffed.

"That's a _Dalek_." John explained.

They watched as the main characters ran around a spaceship, trying to save the Earth from alien destruction.

"I can't tell." Sherlock said, after thirty minutes, when John had almost forgotten his question about the actor's appearance. "I don't work like that."

"So when you find someone attractive it's-"

"When they're interesting." Sherlock replied.

_Well_, John thought, _he might as well have said 'I don't fancy you'_.

When the episode ended, Sherlock bid him goodnight and left the room. John lied back on the sofa, strange irritation creeping all over him. Of course he doesn't fancy John, but why does he feel the need to rub in John's face how boring and unattractive he is?

After all, he's just a caring friend.

Well, John _said_ he was talking care of Sherlock while he was ill. The true purpose of his arrangement was to keep Sherlock away from cigarettes as long as possible. John had even strategically placed some nicotine patches on the night table, knowing that smoking now was probably worse for his health than doing cocaine.

John lied in the dark, eyes open wide, thinking about everything that happened on that long day. Irene, Moriarty, Clara and then Sherlock – all these new people in his life, all these new conversations and events; and still, he felt lonely as ever, Sherlock's words ringing in his ears. _Interesting_.

No, John did not think he was that.

* * *

**Author's note: **Your opinion matters to me! What do you like in the story, what more of would you like to see? Don't be shy, leave a review!

**Next chapter: **make sure you have a permission for a feels trip!


	11. Old Wounds

**Chapter 11: Old wounds**

* * *

It was Thursday. Sherlock had texted John on Wednesday morning, asking him to reschedule their session – he had a meeting with some important investors. John sat curled on the sofa, eating his ham and cucumber sandwich now, feeling a strange emptiness tickle his mind.

When he woke up in the morning on the last Monday, Sherlock had already left. Panicking, John dashed to his room, but nothing was touched – except the nicotine patches, they were gone from the bedside table. He sighed then, slightly relieved, and looked at the bed where his friend had slept. It was not made, of course - John could see the dimple on the pillow where his head was. Why had he left so early, without even saying hello and goodbye?

Now, as John was eating breakfast he realised it had been three days since he had last seen Sherlock. That was longer than he ever had, since they first met each other.

_Not that I'm counting_, he shook his head_. It's good he's trying to start working again_.

The doctor had a day off, so naturally he knew he'd be staying at home. Last night he had left a torrent program on, and now he had a few HD movies downloaded, waiting to be watched. _Midnight in Paris_, _Sunshine_ and _Gattaca _were the movies which he had all seen before, but John didn't like change. Why risk watching a crap flick, when you can watch something you _know_ will enjoy?

Sometime before lunched he phone began ringing – John paused the video and dashed to the hall to pick it up. It was Stamford.

"Hey mate. You're busy?"

John looked with longing at his computer.

"Kind of."

"Listen, do you remember Christopher?"

Christopher was the youngest patient John has ever had. Back then, he was six - that was a year ago. He was a skinny pale blonde boy with round blue eyes and some serious social issues.

Christopher was Stamford's nephew – John was asked to have an informal chat with him back then. Stamford did not want to do it himself – they were family after all, but he did not want to hire a stranger. Although John knew a psychologist would have been more fitting he could understand why Stamford had asked him. So he agreed.

"Sure, I remember him." John replied.

"He remembers you, too. You know, his eidetic memory and all. Started school this year. Very brilliant boy, he."

"But…?"

"Other kids are giving him a hard time. Donna's worried he hadn't made a single friend."

Donna was Stamford's sister. John had met her in some party years back.

"I see. But is a professional's help really necessary? Don't you remember how last time went?"

John himself remembered perfectly. The boy's mother suddenly decided that he no longer needed help – just like that, John did not see Christopher again.

"Yeah. For sure this time. He's been hurt a few times… They tried speaking to the teacher, the kid's parents, and I'm not saying it's his fault he's bullied, but God, the things he's said to his classmates!"

"Hm, can't his parents handle this sort of thing?"

"They're getting a divorce, I think. Plenty of problems to juggle."

"Divorce? Just what the kid needs." John sighed. "You want me to pick him up from school?"

"Yes. Thank you. Just… make it informal, yeah?"

When they finished speaking John glanced at the time on the screen – he still had time before he agreed to pick up Christopher, so he went to finish his movie, and then into the shower – so much for hopes to spend the whole day in pyjamas.

* * *

When he picked up Christopher, they both headed to a small ice cream shop downtown; it might have been a cheap trick to earn trust by buying the kid some sweets, but John did not mind being cheap if it got the result he wanted.

The boy was very smart for his age. He recognised it was something to do with John being the psychiatrist, but he sat down and politely answered John's questions. It seemed he already knew about the things at home. When the topic had turned to his friends, however, there was a lot more contradicting on his part.

They spent a good hour talking, but it was still not the time for Christopher's dad to pick him up – John offered to make the boy some pancakes in his flat while they waited. He agreed.

* * *

When they arrived at John's flat, however, the doctor found the door unlocked.

_I had been robbed_, was the first though that entered his mind. He glanced quickly at Christopher, wondering whether the robbers were still inside. What if they were? John had a gun, but it was, unfortunately, stashed in his bedside drawer. He gave the door a push, cautiously peeking inside.

The lights were on in the apartment, the door to the kitchen ajar; a strange smell of chemicals was in the air. The doctor felt his heart beat faster as he realised that there was definitely someone in his flat – but before he could make any worse decisions, a very familiar voice came from the kitchen:

"Oh good, you're home!"

With the speed of an attacking cheetah John dashed towards that room, ready so strangle Sherlock with his bare hands. What he saw in the kitchen, however, made him forget his killing strategy and simply gaze in bewilderment.

There was a chemistry set made out of all of his pots, pans and other cooking stuff; the big table was dragged into the middle, onto which a strange looking apparatus had been assembled. Sherlock sat in front of it, holding a vial with some nasty looking liquid.

"_How_?" Was the only thing John managed to say. He heard Christopher approach from behind and stop as he too saw the monstrosity cluttering the small kitchen.

"You need to invest in a better lock, John." Sherlock declared, reaching into his locks and pulling out a hair pin. Some part of John's mind that was not busy with boiling with rage squeaked: _he carries hairpins in his hair like a girl_, while every other tried to come up with a response to that statement.

"_Why_?"

_Oh yes, John, very good with these word things, excellent job._

"Mycroft wouldn't let me do this at home." Sherlock explained. "He said he doesn't want me exploding the manor."

John blinked rapidly.

"And what are you making exactly?"

"Explosives."

The doctor opened his mouth and raised his finger in attempt to lecture Sherlock about the absolute necessity for him to retain his flat, but no words came out.

"Cool! A Bunsen burner!" Christopher exclaimed. "Mum won't let me have one!"

"Put that thing away from my stuff!" John finally said.

"Here, come hold this vial for me." Sherlock asked instead.

"I'll hold it!" Christopher offered.

"Put. That. Fire. _Out_." John hissed through gritted teeth.

"Oh don't be dull John." Sherlock tilted his head to the side.

"Yes, John, don't be boring." added Christopher, who had already magically appeared by Sherlock's side and took the vial from him, glowing with excitement.

"Don't know each other's names and already ganging up on me? Great!" the doctor flailed his arms around. He was completely ignored by the two, who had mutely collaborated to pour some liquid from one container into another (John cringed as he realised it was his favourite pot).

"I guess the pancakes are out of question." John added, but was once again, he was paid no attention to. He left the room, grumbling under his nose.

His flat was quite small, so even sitting in the living room he could hear everything his two patients were saying, which was not much. Whatever experiment they were doing, John just prayed the flat was still intact when they were done.

Meanwhile, he was planning all the things he's going to call Sherlock once Christopher leaves. He did not want to yell at Sherlock in front of the boy – John suspected he sees enough of it at home.

He heard each of them introduce themselves and listened in.

"So what are you in for?" Christopher asked.

"Suicide." Sherlock nonchalantly said.

John's eyebrows rose to his hairline. If anything, he did not need Christopher hearing about such heavy issues.

"Oh." the boy replied. "I am because my mother thinks there's something wrong with me. Because I don't have friends. But they're all stupid, so it's not my fault."

"Most people are idiots." Sherlock replied.

"I don't understand why friends are supposedly necessary."

"Pass me that powder." there was a pause, and then Sherlock said "They're not."

"So you say that, but not my mum or dad."

"Because they're also idiots."

John sighed. It was a bad idea to let them talk – Sherlock was not exactly good influence. And yet, perhaps it was not so bad to meet a person who thinks like you. John had judged their session over, anyhow. He decided not to disturb the two.

For a while, both of them were silent.

"Are you a scientist?" Christopher asked. John could practically hear Sherlock's face shape in annoyance but to the doctor's surprise, he replied in detail – John heard them speak for a good thirty minutes about things even _he_ did not know about. It seemed the boy knew more than his parents thought he did.

John relaxed in his seat now, turning on the television. Somehow, it felt comforting to hear them talk about mutual interests – Sherlock was surprisingly nice.

_Well_, John thought, _for him_.

A while later, John heard his own name and listened in again – whatever the conversation was about, the tone in Sherlock's voice was slightly more serious.

"People need friends because they like to rely on them or distribute their responsibilities. Because they can't feel safe on their own. Only a weak person constantly seeks approval of others."

"Everyone I know has friends." Christopher said.

"I didn't have them and I'm fine."

John rolled his eyes. There was another pause, during which the doctor heard something shattering in the kitchen – he hoped it was not his prised mug.

"You talk as though you don't have friends yourself." Christopher said. "But John is your friend."

There was no reply from Sherlock.

"He bought me two scoops instead of one. I can see why you like him, even if he _is_ boring."

John smiled to himself hearing those words – if only everyone could be affected by ice-cream this way.

* * *

Christopher's father picked him up a bit later – John walked him down the stairs and opened the car's door for him. He nodded at the man, hoping that the boy won't tell too much about what he did in the apartment. Before he left, Christopher and Sherlock shook hands formally – John couldn't decide whether it was cute or weird.

When the doctor stepped back into his flat, Sherlock was already packing his things.

"Do you really think it is okay breaking into my apartment?" John asked, taking the glass container Sherlock gave him and placing it in the sink.

The dark haired man glared at him. "I've nowhere else to do this."

John sighed.

"Well, at least Christopher had fun. I guess he's a little like you."

Sherlock passed him another container. John turned on the tap.

"What you told him… About not needing friends. It's basically the exact opposite his parents want him to believe."

"And what did you tell him?" Sherlock inquired.

"That it's all fine. I mean, that's not what I'm hired for – not that this is official or I get paid to do it – but it's what's right. That it's for him to choose how he wants to be. I guess parents' main concern is that he does want friends, but he can't make them, and so he claims he does not need them. But someone people really don't need friends, you know. No need to pressure him."

"So what, you just leave them as they were? What is the point of hiring you?" the younger man asked.

"To give perspective. You know, 'what you do is fine, but there are other things, too'." John paused. "So is it true, what you said? You didn't have or want friends when you were young?"

There was no reply.

"You promised me your childhood's story when I rescued you from that hospital, remember?" John continued.

Sherlock sighed. "What do you want to know?"

"Whatever you feel comfortable telling me."

"I went to boys only boarding school." Sherlock started. "I was really excited to go there. I was significantly smarter than other kids my age – I thought that would impress everyone. I remember waiting by the door in the morning, barely able to keep still. I was happy."

He placed some of the equipment back in the box. "I was beaten up more times than I could count on my first few months. I wasn't really taught how to defend myself before." he made a pause. "I learned. So I was alone, yes. But loneliness didn't bother me. If there was one thing I was looking forward to was to be alone."

"And before that." he looked very reluctant to speak but did anyway. "Yes. I wanted a friend. Of course, I wanted. I had this… game that _Santa_ brought me. Not that I believed in him. It was for two. Stood on my desk for months, everything prepared and arranged. There was a picture on the cover with two boys playing. I thought one looked like me. And he had a friend, so I thought I will too." he closed his eyes for a second, and when he opened them again, he sighed and continued packing his things. "Next year, that's what I asked for in my letter, a friend. I knew that it was my parents that will read it, but I chose to be illogical just that once." he put the lid on the box with the chemicals. "I got a violin that year. Next Christmas I was in the first grade already – first thing I did when I got back home for holidays was to throw the game out."

He fell silent then, trying to clean a glass container with a piece of cloth, eyes fixed on the object in his hand.

"You've made friends in University, though?" John suggested, his heart clenching into a tight knot. How sad must have Sherlock's life been. Still was, perhaps. How different would he have been if there was a boy who would have played with him?

"There was Victor. But not in a sense you probably think. I say he was my friend, yes – because we would meet, talk, go to events together, sometimes have sex. He kissed me a few times, I didn't like it; I don't think he did either. Even if we were physically close it didn't happen again. We wouldn't look each other in the eyes then. It was convenience to him, an experiment for me."

"He didn't mind how I was, and that was more than most people did. And that I appreciated. We didn't talk in public much. His relationship with me would have hurt his image – it was understandable. Logical. I liked that better because if it was logical I could comprehend it – emotional stuff was never my area."

"So in a way, he was what I needed. And I appreciated our relationship. But there was no…" he seemed to have difficulty finding words, something John has never witnessed before. "I don't know how to say." he confessed.

John wanted to suggest something to him – trying to put in words things he felt, but then something clicked in Sherlock's head and his eyes widened, as though having solved an equation.

"This." he said, poking John in the chest and then suddenly turned to his boxes, as though immediately regretting his words. His movements turned hasty and awkward.

John lost every word he had ever known. He helplessly watched Sherlock quickly pick up the rest of his things and head for the door, clearly done talking.

"I will see you tomorrow?" John managed, after he made his way to the exit first.

"Yes." Sherlock nodded. Whatever he had shown just a second ago was already gone from his face, leaving no trace. He opened the door, swinging his duffel bag on his shoulder.

"Or you could stay longer. I've got a movie you might like." John suggested, trying to get his inner turmoil under control, but Sherlock shook his head.

"There's something I need to do." he said, and John could not tell whether it was a good or a bad thing.

"What is it?" John asked.

"You'll see tomorrow." Sherlock said, betraying no emotion, and disappeared into the hall.

* * *

**Author's note:** what did you think of Sherlock's story?

**edit:** I did not detail John's and Christopher's conversation - I thought it would stray too much from the main focus that is John's and Sherlock's relationship. But if, in your opinion, you'd like to hear more about the side stories ( such as Clara's, Christopher's or someone else's) , do tell me! (Imagine it in my head either way, might as well write it down).


	12. Two Johns

**Author's note: **Thank you all for reviewing my work. I am very glad you are enjoying this.

* * *

**Chapter 12: Two Johns**

* * *

As John stepped into the manor on Friday afternoon, a sound had reached his ears, making his heart leap and his footsteps hasten. The weep of the violin filled the dark rooms and halls, a melody so beautiful and heart-wrenching it took over John's whole senses, touching him deeply and in ways he did not think music could. His imagination ran wild with the images of the instrument touched by those long fingers, 4 strings speaking more than the man's words ever could as he approached the room, every other thought he had wiped away by the allure of melody.

"Doctor Watson, a word?" he heard the voice of the older Holmes behind his back. As John turned, the man nodded and motioned towards a room opposite of Sherlock's.

"He's playing again." John smiled, but Mycroft seemed to be less amused.

"You seem to have become good friends with my brother." he remarked, as they both sat down in the small private library, large grandfather clock's ticking stroking the air. John could hear the sound of Sherlock's playing through the thick walls. The doctor longed to be there, where Sherlock was playing. The melody has gotten slower, melancholic – John wondered what compelled Sherlock to play again – but first he needed to deal with Mycroft.

"I can assure you, Mr Holmes, that is not a violation of any rules-"

"And he also slept in your flat? _Twice_?" Mycroft asked, blowing his nose and sneezing loudly. John noticed the skin of his hands were dotted with small red marks, not unlike a rash.

"Well someone needs to take care of him." John bitterly said.

"Are you sure that is the only reason, doctor?"

"I am not sure what you are implying." John retorted.

"My brother may be a brilliant man, but he's quite clueless when it comes to these matters. So I look out for him."

"As do I." John assured.

Mycroft tilted his head to the side. He did not seem convinced.

"He hadn't played since the attempt." the older Holmes then said and sneezed again, so loudly that John almost jumped in his seat. "I would not like to see him put the violin aside after two months."

_Two months_. John knew what Mycroft meant – after that time John will be done with Sherlock's sessions, and will no longer be his doctor.

"I hardly think I have so much to do with that. He is trying to begin working again." John said. "That makes him happy."

"You think happiness compels him to play?" Mycroft shook his head, patronising. "I have my brother's best interests in mind. He takes you for granted – what happens when you leave?"

"I won't." John said. "I'm not his friend because of my _work_."

"And what if he requires of you more than you're willing to give?" before the doctor could say anything, Mycroft added "And you know what I mean, John."

"He said he is not interested in that."

"He also said he had no friends, but here you are." Mycroft retorted.

"That is not going to happen." John assured, managing a polite smile.

"And if it would, could you return his feelings?"

"No-"

"Then I trust you keep your distance." Mycroft said. "If it is not too late already."

John left the library and headed towards Sherlock's room, stirred inside by the conversation he just had. What had provoked such a topic? The doctor knew that it was practically ludicrous to assume Sherlock had said anything, so what was Mycroft basing his conclusions on? Becoming friends with your patients was not a crime. Anything more was simply _impossible_.

And for so many reasons, John thought. So many obstacles, made of things that could not change. They made John feel safe – that knowledge that nothing of the sort could even happen between them.

_Mycroft is paranoid_, John concluded. Despite knowing a lot about Sherlock's past, John still had little idea of what role Mycroft had played in the patient's life. He decided to inquire about it, when he had the chance.

When he opened the door, he was immediately met by Sherlock's eyes – he was standing in yet another well-tailored suit, violin held gently by his beautiful hands, ceasing to play as John entered. There was a certain look about him that was unlike anything the doctor had ever seen.

"Hello." John greeted, happiness filling his heart for what it seemed a very simple reason. A smile on those full lips and the warmth in those eyes – so genuine, and so rare.

The scientist put the violin on its stand and walked over to the sofa. He seemed to be in a particularly neutral mood, something that was rare for him. Fluctuating between complete apathy and maniacal engrossment, it was nice to see the man at such piece, even though the doctor knew it was temporary.

John glanced at the sheet music stand, noticing that the notes had been hand written.

"You're composing?" John raised his brows.

"Yes."

"Is that what you left to do yesterday?"

"Yes."

"Oh. I was hoping you'd play for me…" John said, feeling Sherlock's gaze intensify.

"Yes, that was my plan too, but it's not done."

John saw a lot of ripped out stave papers on the ground, creased into balls.

"I… I mean just anything. Any… piece of music. I heard you play from the hall. I'd like to hear more, if you don't mind…"

It did not seem that John was going to get what he wanted. The violin was put aside and Sherlock did not glance at it again. John felt awfully disappointed.

"Don't step on it!" Sherlock suddenly said, making John freeze. He got up from the couch quickly and knelt down reaching for something near John's feet. The doctor looked down, not moving an inch, watching Sherlock pick up a ball of spikes from the ground, slowly and carefully.

As the scientist stood up again, holding the thing in front of John's face, it clenched into a tighter ball. It was alive.

"Right then, you were saying?" Sherlock asked casually, running his fingers against the grey tipped spikes of the hedgehog in his hands.

"You've… got a pet…" John slowly uttered.

"Mycroft is allergic to hedgehogs. It is such an unlikely allergy!" He lifted the hedgehog above his face, as though to look it in the eyes and the poor creature curled again, so that only its nose was visible.

_Well that explains Holmes senior's sniffles_, John concluded.

Sherlock brought the animal to his chest almost lovingly, one of his palms on the soft belly and the other carefully resting on the spikes.

"Does it have a name?" John inquired, unsure whether hedgehogs were even fit to live in a household.

"What does it need a name for? It's not like he understands."

"He?"

"It."

John took a few steps forward and gently poked the spikes. "Some people like giving names to pets to make them more… part of the family, or something. I always wanted a cat, but Harry's allergic."

"Mycroft raised an ultimatum. Either I go, or the hedgehog does." Sherlock said, regret in his voice.

"Are you going to release it into the wild?"

"I got it from a pet store. I don't think it would survive." Sherlock explained, pressing the pet closer to his chest. The spikes pressed hard into his thin, dark shirt. If John didn't know Sherlock any better, he'd say he had grown attached to the pet.

"How long have you had it?" the doctor asked.

"Three days." Sherlock replied.

"Well what are you going to do?" John asked as his fingers accidentally brushed against Sherlock's hand, that was caressing the pet.

The scientist smirked and quirked a brow. John understood his idea without words.

"You want _me_ to take it?"

"Until I get my own place again." Sherlock said.

"But it's… a hedgehog." John couldn't wrap his head around the idea. "It's all _pointy_."

"Here." Sherlock gave him the pet without allowing a second for John to protest. The doctor reluctantly took it, the creature wiggling in his grasp. Sherlock guided John's hands until the pet was belly-up, its back curled into a ball. John could see the black eyes glare at him with distrust and the tiny legs funnily hang in the air. The pointy black nose moved as it breathed, a grumpy expression on its face.

"You can name him if you like." Sherlock assured. John realised Sherlock's fingers had never withdrew from the back of the doctor's hands, as though it required two grown men to support the weight of a small hedgehog.

"Fine." John said. "How is your work then, any progress?"

"Nothing definite yet. I've bought a set of safe rapiers." He motioned towards the floor next to the sofa where an aquarium was transformed into a little home for the hedgehog. John placed it inside, wincing as the spikes grazed his skin. It was really unpleasant to handle that kind of pet, he thought. Still, he hadn't the heart to see Mycroft kick either Sherlock or the hedgehog out. John figured taking the pet into his flat was the lesser of two evils, the other one being moving with Sherlock.

John's phone rung. It was Harriet.

"Excuse me just a second." John told Sherlock, before picking it up. "Hello?"

"Hey, John! Listen we're having this tequila party…"

"Uh, no."

"Clara has a hot friend that would like to meet you."

"I'm listening."

"Oh, she is totally your type. The party's on Saturday. She's a dancer…"

John smirked. "I see."

"And she is excited to meet you too! Clara might have told her about her girlfriend's totally attractive doctor brother. So what do you say? She's got big cans -"

"I'm sold." John said. "Talk to you later, okay? Bye."

He put the phone down and sighed, trying not to get too thrilled with the plans. He felt Sherlock stare at him during the whole phone call.

"Right, then. Sorry, it was my sister. "John cleared his throat. "So, rapiers?"

* * *

"There is something I've been meaning to suggest." John said, countering Sherlock's blow.

"Oh?" Sherlock quirked a brow, evading John's attack with a quick jump to the left.

"I know you said you aren't interested in relationships." John tried to hit him again, but Sherlock proved to be too fast. "But a casual date wouldn't be too much, would it? Bit of laughs and flirting maybe?" the tip of Sherlock's rapier grazed John's jumper, but they continued.

"Oh, when?" Sherlock asked, quick on his feet, his curls dancing as the sprung up and down on the tips of his toes.

"Shouldn't _with whom_ be more important?" John asked, taking a few steps forward.

Sherlock suddenly came to an abrupt halt. "With whom?" he repeated.

John let down his weapon. "There's a guy I know from med school - Geoffrey Morley. He's thirty-two, well-travelled and a proper doctor. Interesting bloke. Tall."

Sherlock seemed to have lost all enthusiasm for fencing – he tossed the rapier onto the table, knocking a vase down in the process, but he couldn't be bothered.

"Okay." he said.

John furrowed his brows. "Really?"

It was _too_ easy.

"Yes." Sherlock replied.

"I mean it's just a… casual thing, he knows that. I mean I didn't tell him you're my patient, obviously."

"Okay." Sherlock repeated, going over to a pile of books and grabbing some new looking one.

"It's just… you know it's good for you. To socialise."

"I already agreed, why do you keep on selling this guy?"

"Yes, okay. Does Saturday at seven sound okay?"

"It's fine."

"I'll uh… I'll tell him, then." John said, still not convinced that Sherlock was actually serious. He glanced at the watch on his hand. It was about time to leave. "Well, I hope Google will tell me everything I need to know about it." he said, looking at the hedgehog in its aquarium. The creature did not seem to be impressed with the apple in the corner. "I guess I'm going to buy some mealworms." He looked back at Sherlock and noticed a small smirk on his lips.

"I thought of a name." the scientist stated.

"Yeah?"

"The resemblance in uncanny." he replied, glancing at the hedgehog, and then back at John.

"If you think you can name a pet after me and then have me take care of it for you…"

* * *

_Then apparently you are right, _John thought as he sat on the back seat of the car with the aquarium by his side, hedgehog-John staring at him with some kind of derision.

_How did Sherlock always get what he wanted?_

Neither John said anything to one another during the whole trip home.

* * *

John arrived earlier at Harry's home, excited about the woman – Esther – he was going to meet. It was Saturday, and John had spent his entire morning picking out the right outfit and styling his greying hair into something more edgy. He could not remember the last time he had spent so much time in front of a mirror.

He left the hedgehog alone in the flat, still unsure how he felt about keeping such a pet in his living room. Most pets were fluffy and cute – but this one was… well. It was spiky. And grumpy. _And_, it was apparently named after him. John tried not to think about it too much, but the judging glare never ceased to follow the doctor as he moved around the room. Why did he even agree to this?

"John, will you help me with the plates?" Harry asked, and sighing, John went to the kitchen to lend his manly muscles for carrying of salmon sandwiches.

About twenty minutes later, Esther arrived, and John rushed to the door, feeling excited and strangely nervous. From what Harry had told him the woman was interested – he could only hope that he could play his cards right.

In five minutes, he wanted nothing more than to disappear from the face of the Earth.

Esther came with a friend – a female friend at whom John did not look at, having laid his eyes on the woman he was waiting to meet. She was beautiful – and short, much shorter than him, and that was great. The way their eyes met for the first time spoke of mutual interest and for a second, John thought he would finally have something good happen to him.

And then, the other woman spoke:

"Oh! Watson is such a common name, I never thought you were Harriet's brother!"

Then, John looked at her. She seemed familiar – he couldn't say from where.

"You know John?" Clara asked, peeking from the kitchen.

"Oh." The woman said. "I meet a lot of people in the hospital, but I remember him."

"The hospital?" Harriet blurted out. "What happened John, why didn't you call me?"

Hospital. John thought. What hospital, when?

"He was there for his fiancé. Poor thing." the woman said.

John's heart dropped to his ankles. The woman was the doctor who had discharged Sherlock.

"Fiancé?" Both Harriet and Esther said in unison.

"Uh…" John managed.

"Oh, the poor thing. Our entire staff had quite the night dealing with him. He was so glad when John finally got him discharged!"

"_Him_." Harriet said, shooting John a _what-the-fuck_ look.

From that moment on, John realised he was screwed.

* * *

"You know what? Fuck Sherlock. It's his fault my life's a fucking wreck." John said, and hedgehog-John blinked sympathetically. The doctor was sitting in front of his TV, watching some sports channel, a strong drink on the table and the pet on his lap. Its tiny feet were soft against John's naked legs. He was wearing his shorts and shirt, dressed up for bed, but was too agitated to sleep.

"He didn't even fucking answer my text. Probably screwing that pretentious prick Geoffrey. So much for_ I-don't-like-when-people-touch-me_ shit." John sighed. "Sorry for the language, mate." He took a piece of melon and fed it to the creature. Its long nose was wet as he touched John's fingers and munched on the food.

"I'm going to die alone, aren't I?" John said jokingly, but his heart clenched painfully as the thought about it. He glanced at the phone that showed no signs of life, and then out of the window, where he saw nothing but the flat darkness spread across the sky.

The evening was completely catastrophic. He couldn't tell everyone that he was not actually engaged to a man – fearing that lying in the hospital would get him into some sort of trouble. So there he was, all chances with Esther ruined, trying to text Sherlock about the situation he was in – hoping for at least a sympathetic "lol" (or whatever the equivalent to that in Sherlock's language was), but he never wrote back.

John looked at the hedgehog and ran his fingers against the spikes, feeling his throat tighten as though he was about to shed a tear. Everything added up, and he had never felt so alone. Even Sherlock was busy with someone else, and John felt himself selfishly regret ever setting up that date.

What if he agreed so quickly because he wanted to meet someone? Someone that didn't resemble a _hedgehog_?

"No offence, mate." John said, and looked at the TV, seeing nothing but a blur.

Hours passed and the phone remained mute, and John just sat there, watching the hedgehog fall asleep, finally admitting to himself a few things he did not want to admit.

Firstly, he liked the hedgehog.

And secondly, the mere thought of some stranger having the privilege of touching Sherlock drove John up the wall.

* * *

**Author's note: **What did you think of John the hedgehog? At least _he's_ there to keep human-John some company.

Reviews make me happy. I write faster when I am happy.

**Next chapter: **John gets a text from Sherlock, asking what John is wearing. A bit later, they're already in a car. But where will they go this time?


	13. The Blue Orange

**Author's note:** Thank you all for so many reviews, it made my week! I would like to thank _Norah Rivers_ especially for always leaving such amazing long reviews! I wish you weren't a guest and I could send you a PM, you wonderful person!

Big thanks to _Skye City, _for some native-speaker help and also some giggles in the middle of the night xD

This chapter is seriously long. I don't even know how this happened. Also, this is _different_. You'll see how.

* * *

**Chapter 13: The Blue Orange**

* * *

_What are you wearing? –SH_

It was a late Sunday evening and John had just finished bathing the hedgehog – he plugged the sink and filled it with lukewarm water and let the guy swim in it a bit on the back like a boat; then, with an old toothbrush John cleaned the short spines and wrapped John junior in a towel to dry. When he returned to the living room, he saw there was a text from Sherlock.

Sherlock never replied to John's texts from yesterday (the unforgettable fiasco with Esther and John's "engagement" to Sherlock). Harriet and Clara both glared at John throughout the entire evening, but neither said a thing (probably realising it was best to postpone the conversation for a more private occasion).

John heard about the date, however, from Geoffrey.

John had forgotten a few things in his office in the clinic - he went there this morning to retrieve them, hoping to pick up some take out on his way home. He saw someone approaching in the hall and felt his chest tighten when he realised it was Geoffrey – Sherlock's date.

He was a traditionally good looking man, tall and muscular, with a trimmed beard and mid-length auburn hair. John knew him from med-school as the guy that made girls say "all the best ones are gay", the guy with the best car and best clothes, and best everything else. It was not until recently, however, that John began to despise him.

And now he was headed straight towards the psychiatrist – with a look on his face of a man ready to kick a puppy. John took a few steps back, bewildered.

"Is this how you amuse yourself?" he yelled, loudly enough that a few people turned around to look at the two of them.

"Good morning?" John said, but the man sneered.

"I can't believe you, John."

"What is this about?" he asked, although he knew pretty well.

"That fucking psychopath!" Geoffrey hissed. "Why would you set me up with someone like that?"

"What happened?"

"Oh, it was fucking amazing, that." he sardonically remarked. "Why did you tell him those embarrassing things about me?"

"I didn't tell him anything. He sort of… observes… things." John tried to explain, but Geoffrey would not buy it.

"My arse!"

"Oh come on, how bad could it have been? Did he guess you're living with your mother?" John tried to joke about it, but the man would have none of it.

"You know, I was going to have nice dinner despite him being a total prick but then, _then_ it was just the final straw. He asked me about my car."

"What? How is that bad?"

"He said I must have something big to compensate!"

John gaped. "So _he told you, you have a small penis_?"

"That was fucking it!"

There was nothing at all for John to say. Nothing at all but this:

"Well he's usually right." And then, he burst out laughing.

Geoffrey turned red in colour, the look of utter rage in his face – he fled away, his hands clenched into fists – John was certain that if not for their location as the hospital, he would have been punched in the face.

Somehow, that was even funnier. John wiped a few tears away after laughing whole-heartedly for a good minute, his abdominal muscles still hurting from giggling like a teenage girl and headed towards his office, in a mood so great he practically bounced on every step.

_That Sherlock, he never ceases to surprise me,_ John bit his lip to keep himself from smiling like an idiot. It _really_ shouldn't be this funny, but it _was_, and for the rest of the day John wondered whether Sherlock had agreed so easily because he knew he would completely destroy the guy and also get John's suggestions off his back. It did sound like him. It was also very rude and inconsiderate but the doctor just could not force himself to consider it a bad thing. The only question that bothered him was how Sherlock gathered that information.

And now, he received a text that could be easily misinterpreted.

_What are you wearing? –SH_

The contents of it made John double check the sender ID.

_Why? -JW_

He replied, trying not to make any assumptions. The response came quickly:

_I'll be outside in about ten minutes. Make sure you've got something brief underneath. –SH_

_Excuse me? –JW_

_It will be warm there. –SH_

_WHERE? –JW_

_You'll see. –SH_

_Eight minutes. –SH_

_I'm not going anywhere. –JW_

_But it's good for me to socialise. –SH_

That clever bastard, John sighed.

_Have it occurred to you I might not be home? –JW_

_While theoretically possible, not very probable. –SH_

_Fuck you. –JW_

_Seven. –SH_

Having never received a text back from yesterday, John was more than annoyed with his friend – but it felt quite exciting to be so unexpectedly invited somewhere, and John knew with Sherlock it was not for a cup of coffee. Having placed the hedgehog in his aquarium, the doctor went for his wardrobe, looking for something casual and brief. John was not a man with a ton of choices – a pair of jeans and a t-shirt was about as wild as he got.

The t–shirt was dark blue, made of thin material, with the words "I beat the Kobayashi Maru" written on it, along with the Command logo. John was a fan of James Kirk. His jeans had been recently washed – he could feel them slightly too tight around his legs but there was no time to look for another pair (if there was one). He squeezed his butt inside of them and just as he zipped and buttoned them, his phone beeped again.

_I'm here. –SH_

Catching one last glance at the mirror, after a few seconds hesitation, John dabbed his fingertips into the hair gel and ran them through his hair quickly, before grabbing his jacket and phone with keys and leaving the flat.

He looked for the same car that would always pick him up out of habit – but what he saw instead was a car he had only seen on _Top Gear_ – a _Bugatti Veyron. _

Also known as one of the most expensive cars in the world. John stared at it, its presence mind-boggling in such an ordinary flat-building area of London. It was black, with red accents here are there – a vehicle like none other, its curvature panther-esque, its exquisite design not unlike that of cars in sci-fi movies, only more sophisticated and luxurious. It was an impressive race car, one that must have turned heads in the streets. It had a sleek spoiler on its back and a matching red set of wheels, its chassis seductively low. The front lights illuminated the path from John's door as he walked towards it, watching the driver's door slowly open, already knowing, but refusing to believe who was behind the wheel of that spacecraft.

The driver got out just as John reached the vehicle, running his leather glove covered hand against the top rim of the door, a provocative grin on his face.

"Evening, John."

"Wow." John said. "Wow." he touched the car's hood, as though checking if it was real. "I'm afraid to ask." He looked up, meeting Sherlock's gaze. He was leaning against the car like the worst kind of womaniser, prepared to break a new batch of hearts.

He was completely unlike the man John knew.

"Mycroft keeps it in his garage and never drives it. Luckily, the keys were not hard to find. In his safe. The code was obvious enough." Sherlock said, but even his voice sounded different.

"Why are you… like that?" John asked.

"I don't know what you're talking about." He replied, clearly teasing. There was no quirky scientist left in him, and it was obviously some kind of an act – John could only guess what it was for or why it was so convincing.

They got in the car, soft leather seats pleasantly warm. The lights in the salon dimmed as the radio kept playing some smooth jazz; the inside of the car smelled like leather and that distinct new-vehicle fragrance.

John glanced nervously to his right, as Sherlock pressed a button and the engine woke up with a powerful roar.

"I am truly afraid to ask, but where are we going?"

"I've got a thing at this club downtown."

"Club? What'd you need me for?"

"Company?" Sherlock said after a short pause, as though he had finally found a word that would satisfy John.

John glanced at the speedometer, and swallowed audibly. With the sleek body of the car it seemed they were going much slower than they actually were – instinctively, John grabbed the side of the seat with his left hand. Sherlock glanced at him then and slowed down a bit.

_How considerate. _Strangely enough, that worried John more than breaking the speed limit. Everything about Sherlock felt different – even if nothing obvious had changed in his appearance. It was like his gestures, his facial expressions, even his voice had changed slightly. It was impossible to describe in words – John didn't ask about it again.

"I heard the date went well." John said after a while, unable to hold back a giggle.

"Mhm, yes, it did."

"You made a comment about his _equipment_!" John couldn't believe he was actually saying this. "I mean, what the hell was that for?"

"I was simply stating a fact."

"How did you even… I mean…"

"I am very good with telling measurements. Provided there's certain… Enhancement in view."

"Are you saying you can tell a man's penis size by looking at some awkwardly timed bulges in someone's pants?"

"Yes."

"No you can't!" John exclaimed.

There was a pause. It was almost of though Sherlock was considering keeping something to himself, and John almost relaxed thinking the topic was over, but then, it seemed the need to show off his skills won against common sense once more and Sherlock said:

"Twenty two."

John thought he might die. Actually, he would have _preferred_ a nice quick death right about then.

"Twenty-_three_" he said, looking Sherlock dead in the eye. John could have sworn he saw a pink tint colour Sherlock's cheeks as he turned away and cleared his throat.

* * *

The club they were headed to was called The Blue Orange – it was in a district of London John had never been to. They climbed out of the car and headed towards the shady-looking building with a small, rusty sigh that just said "B.O.". Sherlock opened the door for John and they stepped inside.

Loud rock music was playing, the lighting was dim; the air was filled with the smell of smoke and steaks, with hints of sweat and perfume. The place was filled with people, most of whom were younger than John but older than 25; there was a dance floor where the patrons were grinding against each other, flickers of coloured disco lights dancing on top of their heads.

John inhaled deeply, a hint of marijuana tickling his nose. Instantly, he was pulled back about twenty years, into those distant, alcohol and light drug induced nights of fun and poor choices.

"What are we doing here?" He asked Sherlock, taking off his jacket, as they made their way to the bar, next to which a gay couple was making out, all hands and mouths.

"There's something I need to pick up. Could be a while." Sherlock obscurely said, sliding out of his long coat, allowing John a glance at his back. He was dressed in a dark, casual suit that looked out of place in that setting. He took of the jacket and handed them as well as John's over to some guy behind the bar, who took them without words and carried them into personnel room. He was wearing a tight shirt with usual long sleeves, not listening to his own advice to wear something brief. John had a thought why Sherlock might not want to wear short sleeves and it worried him slightly, thinking that Sherlock might have needle marks on the crooks of his elbows.

It was getting progressively hot as John understood now why Sherlock had advised him to wear something brief. Again, thoughtful.

Unpleasantly strange.

"What is this something exactly?" John raised his brows but Sherlock shook his head slightly.

"You should order a drink while we wait. Don't worry, they won't charge you."

"Are you secretly in the mafia?" John asked in all seriousness.

A man dressed in leather approached them, cigarette resting in the corner of his lips. He was tan, dark haired and had a piercing in his nose. There was some dark make up around his black eyes and a large, coloured tattoo in his upper arm.

"Hey, Holmes." He gave Sherlock a nod, reaching into his pocket and offered Sherlock a pack of smokes, but the scientist shook his head and rolled up his sleeve to reveal a nicotine patch.

"No, thank you, trying to quit."

The dark man quirked a brow and finally caught glimpse of John, who was standing beside Sherlock looking very awkward and out of place.

"Ah, _whipped_ I see." the man grinned.

"Not as much as I would like." Sherlock retorted and they both chuckled.

_Did… did Sherlock make a dirty joke? _John could not believe it.

"This is John." Sherlock introduced. "John, this is Pierce."

"Hi." John shook Piece's hand. The handshake was firm, and the man's skin was hot. "Not his boyfriend." John felt like he needed to say.

"I am going to go talk to Rufus." Sherlock told them. "About the supplies. Order something for him, will you?" He winked at Pierce before disappearing behind what it looked the kitchen door.

_Sherlock winked, _the doctor stared at the empty space where the man had just been, wondering whether it was possible that Sherlock had an identical, much more flirtatious twin brother.

"Are you a whisky man, John?" Pierce leaned against the bar, eyeing John with interest.

"Just a beer for me, thanks." John looked at the bartender. "A pint of… whatever best draft dark beer you have." he turned to Pierce again. "How do you know Sherlock?" he carefully asked.

"Oh, _everyone_ knows Sherlock." he made a _tsk_ sound with his tongue. "That thing he does, _you have a strain on your shirt so you've been to Paris last week_, I love that. It's like magic."

"But what does- thank you" he took the beer. "But what does he _do_ here?"

"That's between Rufus and him I suppose. Rufus is the owner of the club." the main smirked. "You're not what I expected." he glanced at John's Star Trek shirt.

"You expected me?"

"He's never brought someone here before with him. Up until now, there's been plenty of time to guess."

"Guess what?"

"What a man like him fancies. Always so handsome and so alone. Such a tease."

"No. We're not like that. I mean, it's fine. It's all fine, but no." John took a big gulp of his drink.

Pierce gave the bartender a sigh, and soon a drink was in his hand. "I see you around, John." he said, before disappearing into the crowd.

Left alone, John looked around some more. He would go to clubs and bars when he was younger, drinking beer, smoking weed and listening to rock 'n' roll. Some wilder nights surfaced in his memory – easy one night stands and drunk tiptoeing back to his parent's house, hoping none one would see his bloodshot eyes. It was all so long ago.

He watched other people dance for a good ten minutes, finally finishing his beer. The music seemed too loud and the smells were too annoying.

_I'm too old for this, _he thought, just before he heard Sherlock's voice next to his ear.

"Might have to wait a while."

John turned around.

"Wait for what?"

"Supplies."

"You mean like, drugs?"

"No. Just supplies. For my work."

"Illegal supplies?" John frowned.

"John, please." Sherlock rolled his eyes in a patronising manner, glancing at John's empty glass. "Beer, really?"

"I like beer." John replied. "What's wrong with that?"

"When someone offers to pay, one might be expected to order something more… interesting." He waved at the bartender. "Surprise us." he said. She smiled at him.

"Who are you?" John hissed, his lips shaping in a surprised smile. The music had gotten louder and the smoke clouds thicker around them. Sherlock grinned curiously at John's question.

"The science of fitting in, John. Connections. Contacts. I can be as flirty, dirty and spoiled as I need be." he purred, passionate look in his eyes.

"So you're acting." John managed to say, knowing that no piece of anything he did or said seemed fabricated. It was fascinating.

"Mhm." Sherlock hummed as the bartender brought them a tray with tequila shots, a circle of lemons and salt in the middle.

"Shots?" John furrowed his brows. "I'm not a bloody teenager."

"Don't be dull, John." Sherlock scoffed, wrapping his fingers around the small glass and quickly drinking the strong beverage, tilting his head back.

"Don't like the lemons?" John asked, hoping that will somehow free him from drinking.

"Never quite understood what they're for."

"You're kidding? You really don't know?" John grinned.

"Show me." Sherlock leaned in, his gaze intense and sharp, filled with curiosity.

"You're mocking me aren't you?"

"Why don't you tell me… And I'll compare my data?" he murmured, his deep voice sending a shiver down John's spine. With all the smells in the room, John could still recognise Sherlock's scent, intensifying as he leaned in.

"Okay. Just stop being all… sexy." John said, immediately regretting the last word.

_Sexy_! His mind squeeked. _All the words in the English language and you have to go with _sexy_?_

"I'm afraid I can't help it." Sherlock licked his lips. "So, the lemons?"

"Right." John cleared his throat. "You lick the back of your hand or the edge of the glass, then pour some salt on it that stick to the saliva. You lick it, then do the shot, then bite into the lemon…"

John saw the tip of Sherlock's tongue slip between his open lips and slide across the salted skin on his pale hand, leaving a wet trail; he took another shot and bit into the lemon, all kinds of expressions mixing on his face as the sourness hit him. "Mhm that's interesting." he smirked at John, licking the salt crumbs off of his lips. "Your turn."

They drank the whole twelve shots, and then the next twelve; John drank unwillingly at first – enthusiastically later. The alcohol was pleasantly warming and liberating; the music kept getting better and the thoughts less coherent. John caught himself grinning happily as he watched Sherlock take the last shot and shake his head.

He did not realise how drunk he was until he spoke again:

"This is great!" His tongue felt like it was tangling with itself. "This is great." He repeated. "Fun." he smiled again. "I can't believe what you did to Geoffrey that was hilarious and so wrong! And I thought you shagged him or something! Why didn't you reply to my text?"

"What?" Sherlock asked, the music loud of John's ears.

"Never mind!" John shook his head. The track changed, a familiar tune suddenly making him turn to the dance floor.

_Lay where you're laying  
Don't make a sound…_

"Oh this is a good-" John began but when he turned around Sherlock had gone from his spot. Dazed, John wondered where he had gone, until a hand took his sleeve, pulling him towards the dancing crowd.

"No." He laughed, realising what Sherlock was doing. "No, don't be daft."

"One dance won't make you gay, John." Sherlock grinned, pulling him with more force.

_I know they're watching  
They're watching…_

When was the last time John had really done something _just because_? He couldn't hold back a giggle as they dived into the sweaty crowd, feeling his heartbeat quicken in excitement and thrill of something so crazy. The alcohol in his blood assured him it was fine – _all fine_.

_You  
Your sex is on fire_

Sherlock was a terrible, but shameless dancer – he was everywhere, and John watched him unable not to smile widely, out of surprise and utter joy. Who was that man, that everyone turned to look at? Was he really a Nobel-prize winning scientist? No, John decided. Not right now he was not.

_But it's not forever  
But it's just tonight  
Oh we're still the greatest  
The greatest_

He was not far, but not close – John watched him conquer the floor with his strange moves, a smile on his face as their eyes met and the song was ending. He was dancing, too, only much more modestly, not caring anymore about what people might think about him. Another song began and John felt his heart flutter as he recognised it – a tune from when he was very young, and very careless. He knew every word.

"I love this song." he yelled to Sherlock, who was again right in front of him, dancing like it was his last day on Earth.

_You know you're a cute little heartbreaker, _John moved his lips to the words, his eyes meeting Sherlock's eyes.

_And you know you are sweet little… love maker, _he felt the distance between them disappear as Sherlock leaned in, his body just inches away, his body swinging to the rhythm.

_I wanna take you home _John lip-synched, returning Sherlock's gaze as their danced, almost close enough for their bodies to touch.

_I won't do you no harm, no, _the doctor felt the tips of Sherlock's fingers run across his hips and then disappeared as though it never happened, causing John's breath to hitch is his throat. There were very few thoughts in his head as it happened – only the strange sensation of sudden thrill, of something forbidden, even dangerous. Sherlock's gaze did not falter as John parted his lips in sudden surprise – he looked, as he had all night, deviously alluring but utterly unattainable.

The song went on, and they kept on dancing, and soon Sherlock's hands returned to John's hips with more confidence, pulling him closer, not with much force but by the warmth of his skin as his fingers slid slightly upwards, thumbs grazing John's skin right above the waistline.

In return, John's hands found Sherlock's narrow hips and gently wrapped around them; he felt dizzy from the adrenaline and alcohol mixing in his blood as a small part of his mind truly realised what was happening; but the whole night had felt different, and Sherlock was different, and everything had begun to seem surreal, much like a dream right before one wakes up. Sherlock closed his eyes momentarily as John touched him, and when he opened them again he seemed even more peculiar than before, his eyes dark as the black pupils dilated.

Caught in the moment, John ran his hands downwards, touching Sherlock's tight backside, intoxicated by the unfamiliarity of the feeling under his palms. He had never touched another man this way, let alone a man so strongly against other's touch – but there was none of that now as they looked each other in the eye; and John allowed himself to explore more, his curiosity overwhelming any sensible thought.

His tight pants began to feel even skimpier as blood rushed to his loins, Sherlock's grip strengthening on his sides almost as though to restrain themselves; only a few moments, and something could have happened – something John could not put into words – but then they both heard a man call Sherlock's name, telling him that _it_ was ready – and they pulled away, like two pieces of positive magnets suddenly brought together.

The next thing John remembered was the inside of a cab, taking him home. He sat there alone, sobering up, and with it, realising what happened.

* * *

**Songs mentioned in this chapter: **_K__ings of Leon - Sex on Fire _and_ Jimi Hendrix - Foxy Lady_

**Author's note:** The title of the bar is actually a real bar in my hometown. I make inside jokes to myself. Yay.


	14. The Mark

**Author's note:** I know this is a late update, but the whole new series thing made me crazy. (not in a good way I suppose.)

Apologies to anyone who had to endure my endless, for the lack of a better word, _bitching_. Someone people noted that there were similarities between my fic and the second episode of 3rd season. Before it aired... What the f?

Anyway, here is the next chapter. To many of you who asked what I think of series 3 thus far... Well. To be frank, I don't like the new direction the show had taken. I even pondering writing my own version of the series. But that's... crazy talk, right?

* * *

**Chapter 14: The Mark**

* * *

There was a head of dark curls right in front of his face. As John opened his eyes slowly, there was not a thought in his head, but the sight of the pattern in which those black locks laid there, moving ever so slightly together with silent breaths. John felt comfortable and warm, lying on his side, wondering about trivial things he could not even put into proper words. Few strands of hair caught his attention, so black against the white pillow, and then John closed his eyes again, wanting nothing more than to sleep warmly and comfortably like this, forever.

_Sleep?_

As though he had been shot, John jumped up, only to realise it was his bed that he – _they_ – were lying on. From the brightness of the light that fell through the open binds, he could only guess it was midday. The flat was quiet, apart from the silent snoring of the man beside him.

Pain hit Johns head just after he managed a few coherent thoughts. It felt as though his brain had grown smaller and was now rolling inside his skull, each thud painfully nauseating. Barely able to think he connected the few facts he had managed to gather – his position and his company, causing his blood to suddenly freeze in his veins. Panicking, he looked under the cover at his own body, scared out of his mind of what the sight might reveal.

A huge weight fell off his shoulders a second after.

He was fully dressed.

Carefully, he glanced to his left. Sherlock was sleeping on his side, back turned to John. He was in his shirt and trousers, even with his shoes on, but neither his jacket nor coat was anywhere in sight. The expression on his face was peaceful and innocent – he appeared to be in deep sleep, breathing through his open mouth, clasping the pillow with both of his arms; the _only_ pillow John had – the doctor frowned as he realised he had been sleeping without one. _Even in my own bed, he gets what he wants_ John thought to himself, the particular wording of that pushing him into deeper terror.

What he remembered happening yesterday and what he saw now contradicted one another greatly.

The doctor licked his lips.

His whole mouth tasted like cigarettes.

Panic struck John again. _He_ didn't smoke. Somewhere in the distance on the new carpet lied a few bottles John had never seen before, all empty. The room smelled heavily of alcohol and Sherlock's cologne, a mixture that proved to be deadly for John's stomach. He darted to the bathroom, thinking he might throw up, but ended up with only gagging few times, cursing everything in his mind. The bathroom's floor was flooded, and he had no idea why. John took a long piss, challenging with the morning wood he had going, wanting nothing more, than to not find Sherlock in the bed when he returned. He took a mouthful of mouthwash and gargled before he spat out the contents into the sink, blue liquid running down into the drain, and prepared himself for the inevitable.

"Good morning." he heard as he walked in, his eyes met Sherlock's. He hadn't sat up, but had turned to lie on his back, his slightly vacant gaze directed at John; he yawned, eyes watering slightly and blinked, a tear rolling down and disappearing in his hair.

"_What_ are you doing here?" John hissed, but the sound of his own voice made him shudder. His throat was sore and he sounded husky.

"Uhm…" only now it seemed Sherlock looked around to see where he was. "Your room."

"Yes, my room. I remember…" John rubbed his face, standing in the doorway awkwardly. "I remember going home _alone_. In a cab."

"Mhm. I followed you so that to see you return home safely." Sherlock replied, his voice deeper than usual.

"And then you… just… stayed?" John cocked a brow, not buying the sudden caring attitude of his friend.

"You made me promise I would. Don't you remember?"

"No." John frowned. "You drove drunk?"

"Yes."

"Sherlock!"

"I was not as drunk as you." he moaned then, and pulled the cover up. John walked back to the bed, sat on his side (_my side?_ John mentally asked. _This whole bed is mine_) and pulled the cover down from Sherlock's face. He needed answers.

"Did I smoke last night?" John asked. _Please say yes_.

"Not that I recall."

"...did _you_?"

Sherlock curled his lips, tasting them. "That's strange."

"What's strange?"

"I don't remember smoking, but… The evidence shows that I probably did."

A very improbable deduction formed in John's mind. _No no no_. He glanced at Sherlock's full lips. Could he have…? Would he…?

"Well how much _do_ you remember?" John asked, seriously.

"You made me stay. You climbed into the bed and asked me…" Sherlock rolled his eyes trying to recall. "To take off your shoes. Then, you fell asleep and I think I might have too…"

"But you went for a smoke somewhere between that?"

"Give me your hand. Left hand." Sherlock requested and after a moment's hesitation John gave it. Sherlock brought it close to his nose and inhaled deeply. "You smoked too."

"Are you certain?"

"Your dominant hand's fingers are the perfect indication that you held a cigarette."

John sighed in relief. "But I don't remember smoking."

"Neither do I. Show me your feet."

Sherlock kneeled on the bed and grabbed one of the John's legs to look at his socks, causing John to fall on his back, unable to hold balance.

"Fuck." John cursed, watching Sherlock inspect his foot.

"You've been outside after I've taken your shoes off." Sherlock deduced, looking ridiculously serious with John's foot in his hand, before something else had caught his eye. He let go of John and extended his hand towards the window.

John saw something glisten in the sunlight.

"I'm wearing a ring." Sherlock raised his brows. "Do you recognise it?"

John looked at it. "No."

Sherlock sat down on the bed, with an expression on his face of an excited child. "It seems a part of last night is escaping both of our memories. Ow!" he suddenly exclaimed as John hit him in the upper arm.

"This is not funny!" John shook a finger in his friend's face. "Oh God. It's Monday." his eyes grew wide. "I need to call my boss…"

He saw Sherlock disappear into the bathroom as he dialled the number and called in sick. He hadn't done so in many years – unless he was contagious he would always go to work, despite how he felt. But it was different now.

He heard Sherlock urinating in the bathroom and covered his face, the obscurity of last night's events killing him from the inside.

"I suspect we walked on foot." Sherlock remarked as he walked back into the room, curiously fast to put his scarf on and pull it up. John quirked a brow.

"Why are you covering your neck?"

Although Sherlock ignored him, John took a few steps closer and pulled the fabric slightly down (Sherlock simply allowed him, defeated expression on his face), revealing a red blemish on the side of his pale neck.

"What happened to you?" John asked, right before his hung over mind came up with a possible idea. Sherlock turned to meet his gaze. "I don't know."

"The mirror in the bathroom was taken down. There are no mirrors here." John said. "You must remember…"

Sherlock's face went red.

John almost gasped. "Did _I_ do this?"

"You are learning to deduce, which is-"

"_Did I?_"

"Yes."

John bit his own lip painfully.

Sherlock remembered more than he did – perhaps everything. The blemish was not too large, but it must have taken a fair amount of sucking and biting on John's part. The doctor's heart fell to his ankles and he stared at the very apparent, indisputable proof of where his mouth and teeth had been, the colour of Sherlock's face indicating that he too knew where it came from. He did not seem appalled, however, only embarrassed, now that his attempt to hide it had failed. John could not believe that he will have to walk around with this for days, even weeks now, until it goes away.

He doesn't let people touch him. Did he give John his consent? If so, then why? When did it happen? John swallowed audibly. He wished he remembered. What went through his head? How did it _feel_?

"What else? What else did we do?"

"Lots of things. I suspect we were at some kind of 24/7 store, too, judging from the bottles-"

"I mean, what _else_ did we do? Did… We…" John cleared his throat.

"No."

"Are you _sure_?"

"Yes."

"But how can you be s-"

"We were both fully dressed, which is an unlikely thing to do after an intercourse, especially while intoxicated." John cringed at the word _intercourse_. "It is also highly unlikely having in mind our preferences."

The doctor did not look convinced.

"Do you see either of us having difficulty walking?" Sherlock asked.

John blushed too. "That doesn't prove anything!"

"We were drunk. What kind of advanced copulation did you think we could have been capable of?"

"Right. Even if it didn't come to this I still… I still gave you a hickey! Which I don't even _remember_…"

"I do."

John sighed. "I'm sorry. I'm a terrible person."

"John, wait." Sherlock grabbed him by the sleeve just as the doctor was about to flee to another room for whatever made-up reason. "It was just a joke. You said it would be funny if I gave my speech for potential investors this week with a huge… _Blemish_ on my neck, because I'm probably the only scientist who ever gets any, and we both agreed that would indeed be quite hilarious. It was just that. Nothing else happened."

"But you don't remember the whole night!"

"I would have remembered anything like that." Sherlock said silently, examining the ring from his finger. "Cheap bijouterie. New. Definitely made for women. But a very large size – fits me. It is more probable that we bought it than stole it from someone. There might be a packaging or receipt in the rubbish bin." he dashed to the kitchen. John remained in the hall, blinking rapidly. _What the actual fuck?_

"Ah, yes. An _golden band ring_ from… Some 24/7 shop. So I was right. I found the receipt too – we also bought… two bottles of wine. Sunglasses, yogurt. Do you think we ate it? I am hungry."

"Is that all?" John managed to ask.

"No. We also bought fireworks."

"Fuck! How much did we even spend?"

"Don't worry, it looks like it was paid from my card." He looked at the ring on his hand. "Yes, it makes sense now."

"It does?"

"You had my card and you paid with it. But I was not there."

"What?"

"We must have had a plan. Let's go to that shop, I need more data. Do you know where it is?"

"Yes, it's right around the corner." suddenly, John realised something. "John!" he exclaimed, before running to the living room.

The aquarium was empty. Bewildered, John look all around, but he saw so sign of the hedgehog. "He's gone!" He yelled, only to see Sherlock walk into the room with the pet in hands. "You've found it!"

"Yes, it was in the hall. With a hat."

"A hat."

"Yes, a tiny top-hat." Sherlock mockingly cheered. "How cute."

"What is _wrong_ with you?"

"You're taking good care of him." Sherlock continued to smile. "Thank you."

"Sherlock… what the hell happened last night?"

"Let's go to that shop first. It is our only lead."

* * *

The shop was small, one to which all the alcoholics go for late night drinks. John would avoid going there most of the time – but it seemed last night he had joined the ranks of the said alcoholics.

They could not find Sherlock's coat anywhere in the flat. It was getting colder as winter drew near, but the scientist refused to take any of John's clothes, and walked down the street in only his jacket, hands stuffed in the pockets of his trousers, awkwardly too small for his hands.

"An engagement ring." John muttered under his breath.

"I can see why it might have been humorous." Sherlock giggled. He seemed to have been in a much better mood than John, who was still silently hoping it was all a strange dream.

"You do?"

"The hospital, remember?"

"Ah, yes. What a glorious inside joke." John sardonically retorted.

"It was your idea, you know."

"How?"

"Isn't it a custom for this kind of thing to be a surprise?"

Sherlock seemed to have been convinced he was not there when the purchase happened. As soon as they reached the shop, John took up interrogating the keeper.

"Yes, I remember you." the old man said.

"And my friend?" John motioned to Sherlock, who was preoccupied with studying the shelves.

"Is that the lucky lad?" the man grinned. "No, you came here alone. But congratulations."

The scientist turned around. "I told you so."

"Did I… Say anything to you?" John asked carefully.

"Lots of things I'm afraid." the bearded man replied, staring at Sherlock. "Did the ring fit?"

"Y-" John sighed. "Did I happen to mention where my friend was?"

"Friend, is it? You said he's getting a ladder."

"A ladder." Sherlock suddenly appeared right beside John. "What for? From whom?" he paused. "No shops were working. I must have borrowed it from someone. Do any of your neighbours have a ladder, John?"

"Maybe Mr Smith from second floor?" John mused. "By why would be need a ladder, were we changing bulbs or something?"

"Maybe it's for you. Because you're short. Get it?" the seller laughed, watching them leave the building.

When they reached John's flat again Sherlock was shivering and rubbing his own shoulders, and John almost felt sorry for him, before he remembered the mess he had caused. None of this would have happened, if not for that man! John was furious and still slightly nervous about not knowing what exactly happened. He promised never to drink again.

Sherlock was pleased to find the small decorative snowman near the entrance to the flat had a hole in its head – that's where the hat came from, he explained. It was all just a game to him, John realised. Meanwhile, the doctor was placing things in their rightful places as well, imagining them splitting up to carry out some diabolical alcohol-induced plan. The ladder seemed to have been an answer to many things – the location of Sherlock's coat, the fireworks, perhaps even the engagement ring, although John had pretty much decided it was as Sherlock said – a joke about their pretend engagement in the hospital. Was John really so drunk last night that he went so far?

They found that they have indeed borrowed a ladder from Mr Smith. Sherlock suggested they return to John's flat for further clues.

While Sherlock scouted the area, John managed to locate the sunglasses and yogurt. They shared the latter, while the former remained a mystery – John could not say why he bought it for the life of him.

A few minutes of search later, Sherlock finally found the answer he sought. He called John into the room and motioned towards the window.

"I realised the window had not been fully closed. A small clue, but if you needed to clear the air you would have opened the top – but now the whole window had been opened. There's a fire escape here. Let's go up, see if our ladder is there."

Sceptical grin on his face, John climbed over the windowsill and jumped down onto the metal surface of the external staircase, Sherlock following immediately afterwards. John looked up and cursed to himself.

The fire escape must have been the least stable structure that John had the misfortune to climb. Although the building was only 4 stories tall, that did not give John much comfort. The metal was old, rusty and wobbly, it squeaked, and creaked and groaned as both of the men climbed up towards the roof. The last segment of the stairs was gone, but it was conveniently replaced by Mr Smith's ladder. John finally reached the steady ground on the top of the building, glad to have made it in once piece.

He looked at the view of the street as Sherlock climbed up, not much to be seen as most of the buildings around were taller than this one. The sky was promising another long rainfall, and everything seemed grey and cold underneath his feet. He looked back to the surface of the flat roof where they must have gone yesterday. There, on the ground, laid Sherlock's coat, near some cigarette butts, a few more bottles and the empty cases of fireworks.

"Well, I think the crime scene speaks for itself." Sherlock smiled having approached John, swinging back and forth on his heels.

"We got here to drink? To the roof?" John blinked.

"And to smoke and to watch beautiful fireworks in the night sky of London. Apparently."

"Are you sure you don't remember all of it?" John asked suspiciously.

"No. I wouldn't mind remembering though."

"But you remember… The _hickey_, not the fireworks?"

Sherlock looked down to his feet.

"I laid my coat down for us to sit on. After we've drank and smoked everything, when the sun was already visible in the horizon we were about to head back when you stopped me."

Even though John could not remember anything from the happened on the roof, he could imagine it clear as day. Sherlock sitting next to him, his long, pale neck exposed to the cold, so close. The man so distant, so untouchable, and yet right _there_.

"I suppose I've seen a lot more of fireworks than I've been like that." Sherlock said.

And then, John realised there was no joke about investors, or presentations; there might have not been words at all. He must have just leaned in, and left his mark on the soft alabaster skin; just because he could, just because he was allowed to.

Even in his drunkest state, John would have had courage to do more than this – but it was enough, enough to finally realise the inevitable thing he had to do.

"Sherlock…" he felt every inch of his body growing cold. "I can't be your doctor anymore."

* * *

**Author's note:** John finally does the decent thing. But what now? I promise the next chapter is going to look at this story from a whole different... Point of view.


	15. The Man Who Matters

**Author's note:** For this chapter only, something rather different. I hope you enjoy it.

* * *

**Chapter 15: The Man Who Matters**

* * *

_Six weeks ago_

He had everything ready.

The black box sat on the table, innocent, insignificant little thing. Sherlock picked it up with shaking hands, the human side of him like an animal in a cage that was his body, desperate to save itself.

He had taken care of everything. It was such a serene feeling, to dot all the i's and cross all the t's, with nothing left undone, nothing waiting for him. It was complete, like a very well done experiment, all conclusions, sources at the bottom – only the final full stop remained to be placed at the end. One final _dot_.

He was afraid. His own body, treacherous as it was, tried, with everything it had – panic, tears, sweat – to keep him from it, but Sherlock Holmes was a man of the _mind_. The mere realisation that to stop was to prove weak strengthened his determination. To write his own ending was a captivating idea – to be his own man, until the very last day.

He smiled at his own weakness – the faint pondering of all the would if's and could have's. All the things that might have happened, but will not. All the people he could have met and grown to despise or forget.

It was comforting to know he could have the final word in his own life, to die alone like he had been alone his whole life. It was who he was. What he had.

He opened the box, his trusty syringe inside; after that, there was not a thought in his head.

* * *

Pain. Noise. The skin of his eyelids is dark red.

Voices.

Lights.

He wakes up – not from sleep.

He falls – not into dreams.

"I'm disappointed in you, little brother."

_Please, let this end._

It doesn't.

It doesn't.

Days pass.

Weeks.

Slowly, slowly.

He's back where he was. Months ago, years – he's in the old manor, eyes open, heart beating.

Alive.

_What a failure_. How could he miscalculate?

"Compulsory therapy."

Leaves begin to fall down from the tree outside his window. The wind hauls in the night as he lays sleepless and cold.

Life continues.

* * *

_Four weeks to one week ago_

Sherlock had made a game out of it – to see how fast the psychiatrists would flee from him. How personal he needed to get.

The first two were easy. _Disappointingly easily_, Sherlock thought to himself. He could see through people without much effort – not only facts about their lives but also which one of them they held most secret, what would hit too close to home. A cheating husband, miscarriage, a second job doing manual labour to pay the bills – things that ashamed, saddened, repelled them. Sherlock knew it was rude and insensitive – he did not care.

About them, or about anything else. A death would have been a clean end – and now there was really nothing else, just endless tedium, over and over until he tries again or something else comes along the way that piques his interest. It was very unlikely, that. He took up smoking again – delicious, luscious poison, the only thing that barely made him bother. Sherlock could see the day and night change outside his window, but he barely slept, or moved. Sometimes, a strange mood would come over him – an outburst of internal energy, making him fluctuate between taking up crazy experiments to jumping off rooftops. He could not even decide what he wanted anymore – to live, to die? Both were boring.

Then, the third doctor showed. He was not so easily defeated.

It took him a full three weeks.

As he came into the room, Sherlock immediately regretted having made the other one leave so soon. That one was at least somewhat witty – this one seemed to be the most boring of all three. John Watson, he told his generic name, smile on his face making Sherlock want to gag.

Quickly. He would get rid of this one quickly.

Firstly, he needed to find a soft spot. It was like hunting – you needed to know where they were protected by thick skin or bone, and where they were weak, vulnerable, to know where it would hurt most.

_Lack of money? Worth mentioning, but not enough. Workaholic? Probably thinks of it as a pro. Lonely? Yes, that will do._

Doctor Watson's reactions were not entirely anticipated – not only was he unaffected by Sherlock's words he was also quite amused. The scientist watched him leave, wondering whether he would return as he had promised. The boring, boring man, in the ridiculous jumper. Why would he prove to be more resistant than others? Perhaps, Sherlock had not yet discovered what makes him tick?

Sherlock found the thought annoying. Really, how hard could it be?

But even after the second time they met, he did not really know. John had offered to play an _idiotic_ game of words, and somehow, they ended up playing. And John ended up cheating – and _still_ losing.

_Always losing to him_. In this or in chess – it never seemed to bother him. Did he have no ambition or was this all a poor attempt at pity towards Sherlock? They played. Again and again.

And again.

Then, there were the eggs, the cake, the coffee – somehow, all of these foods had intertwined with John in Sherlock's memories. His warm, grey-blue eyes and his smile – a necessity at first, but genuine and heartfelt just a week after. And Sherlock can tell when a man is _really_ smiling. There is no doubt now, only surprise in Sherlock's mind.

He watches John on one of their sessions, studying the wrinkles around his eyes, the light stubble on his chin and jaw, the colour of his greying hair as the rare ray of sunlight falls through the window and grabs hold of a few strands. He sees how John's thin lips move as he speaks, how his nostrils expand when he sighs deeply in frustration and how his skin shapes as he furrows his brows. The scars on his cheeks, the direction at which the hair grows on his brows - Sherlock remembers every detail, stores it inside his head with the rest of the neatly collected data. He has no real concept of beauty, but he knows it's a face he wants to keep in his mind.

Two weeks in, he can read John's expressions with precision. Tired John. Angry John. Confused John. The John he is when he thinks no one can see him. The John he turns to when he's sleep deprived. John who only wants to eat cake. Embarrassed John.

_Extremely_ embarrassed John. _("Twenty-three."). _Sherlock still doesn't believe him. He has a tape measure in the pocket of his coat. He almost suggests it, out of pure interest of seeing what comes after _extremely_.

The list expands. So many flavours to his doctor, it seems, most of the interesting ones carefully hidden away, but Sherlock needs to see them all. _An experiment._

And what an experiment indeed – Sherlock can barely contain himself. He sees how sometimes John's defences fall and then there is something more – a longer look, a hitch of breath – and it's absolutely thrilling, catching him unawares.

But he needs more, _more_, so he risks it. He tests the waters with the tips of his fingers, and after no sign of imminent danger he _reaches_ for _more_; but when John's hands strategically slide down his backside, Sherlock finds it _outrageous_, he feels beaten at his own game. He loses valuable data. Fragments of loosely related bits suddenly cloud his perfect mind.

The gun in John's drawer. Sherlock had looked and found a gun and he has been meaning to ask for John's reason of keeping it. But why is he thinking of guns? That is not a _Sig Sauer P226R _that's pressing to his thigh.

Data corruption - shameful failure on his part as his disobedient body decides to shut down his brain for a few vital seconds. He doesn't record this particular moment of John as his own reaction gets in the way. It's not good for his experiment.

* * *

_Present day_

Three weeks, and the third doctor is gone. Sherlock counts the 8th day since he had last seen John – on the rooftop, face shaped in sudden terror of realising what happened.

And, he doesn't _even_ remember.

But Sherlock remembers.

Everything.

Not everything – not the ladder, not the ring; only everything that matters.

John matters.

"I can't be your doctor anymore"

Then, he's gone. A week passes.

Sherlock feels surprisingly close to that when he first awakens in the hospital ward, realising he was somehow alive. It's not what he wants, but there's nothing that can be done. It simply _is_, and life goes on.

But it's not the same.

He looked around the room in which he was standing – it was adjacent to the medium hall in which he and his partner will be delivering their speech to the potential investors.

The first weeks of winter were cold, wet and windy, and as per usual, the shops were quick to start the Christmas mayhem, complete with the utterly annoying music blasting from every possible speaker, everywhere. Sherlock hated it.

"Mmm." Jim Moriarty purred, his fingers pulling on the collar of Sherlock's shirt. "Cover, that up, will you, darling?"

Sherlock returned his gaze – cold, piercing, not an ounce of anything remotely affectionate. They were back working together – systemising their ideas to present them to others. It was almost unbelievable, how much they agreed on the plan of action – for now. Sherlock had known Jim for many years now – most of which they both admired, and hated each other. It was the closest thing Sherlock had to a friend – a man of his own kind. He was rather cruel, and inconsiderate – but was Sherlock not exactly the same? Only their goals differed, hence the enemy part – but even if one would label Moriarty as a bad person, Sherlock could never say that he, in return, was a good one.

"Indulge me… For a minute…" Jim stepped back, his eyes still fixed on the blemish that had begun to fade, endlessly entertained by the thoughts that seemed to be going through his head as he spoke. "But am I to assume… It…" his gaze drifted down, between Sherlock's legs. "Actually works?"

The taller man grinned. Of course, Jim must have his own ideas on Sherlock's sexuality – just like everyone else. He never quite understood the fixation on the topic, but it seemed to be a subject that aggregated a lot of curiosity. Even Jim was not immune, it seemed. He must have gone to incorrect conclusions – but Sherlock felt no wish to discuss it further.

After all, the thing he thought of was not something Sherlock hadn't thought of himself.

Constantly.

And more, with each passing day. Even now, when it had gone from futile to impossible.

"Just when you think you know _everything_." Moriarty made a loud tsk sound, petulantly puckering his bottom lip. "Really tasteless. You – I mean. I am _truly_ disappointed." he walked over to his laptop, looking at the presentation files. "But he's not there anymore, is he – your pet? Chewed through the leash!". He looked up, but all he must have seen was the blank mask Sherlock had put on his face as soon as John was mentioned. "Oh, don't be like that. I'm sure you'll find someone else to fuck you. Hell, if we get the financing, _I_ might even take up that dirty job." He giggled. "I miss this. Miss you. It's awfully boring being a genius when everyone around is an idiot. No one there to express _appreciation_. You really complete me."

"You're not my type." Sherlock retorted, the corner of his lip twitching upwards.

"Oh? What if I put on a second-hand jumper and pretend I have tons of self-esteem issues?"

"No."

"Pity." Moriarty tilted his head to the side.

Their eyes met, and suddenly the atmosphere had changed entirely. Jim's face lost all it's glee.

"How many people are going to be there?" Sherlock asked.

"Fifty, give or take."

"I thought there would be more."

"Purely theoretical speculations are hardly the first things people want to put their money into."

"I've been successful before." Sherlock said, more to himself than Jim.

"Yes, but then you tried to kill yourself, who says you won't try that again when their money is involved?"

"I don't jeopardise my work, you know that."

"Yes good. Don't do that. It would be so very _lame_ to work alone again."

"Well, you won't have to." Sherlock assured.

The remaining minutes passed quickly, and they left the small room together, entering the hall in which many people had gathered to listen to their speech.

Sherlock looked around the room, saying the first few introductory words, buttoning up his jacket as he walked the few steps onto the platform. He caught glimpse of Mycroft and did his best not to scoff. _As if he would understand a single word of what we are about to present._

Sherlock briefly motioned towards Moriarty as he introduced him, confident in both his speech and his work. He had almost began to feel as he did almost nine months ago when his vocal chords and his heart both stopped suddenly, as he saw a familiar face among the crowd of strangers.

John.

Sherlock forgot there was a presentation he had to give for a moment – forgot where he was, forgot his words and the fact that there was anyone else in the room, but the man in the third row, in a hideous shirt and tie.

He was _here_.

And it felt like years since they had last looked at each other. The look on John's face was almost shy – as though he was not sure if Sherlock would approve of him being here. He certainly did not invite him – but only because Sherlock thought it was all over. He thought John had made a decision – and he respected that. Even, if it was the exact opposite of what _Sherlock_ wanted. Even, if he had missed him.

If John didn't want him, as a patient, or as a friend, there was nothing he could or would have done.

But if he was here… Than perhaps something could still be done.

* * *

**Author's note:** this was not the longest of chapters, but I wanted to give you a glimpse into Sherlock's mind, not a complete open book. What has John been up to in those 8 days, and why has he come to Sherlock's speech? Clearly, not because he takes interest in quantum physics.

I do love reviews so please leave one, even if it's a short one! It lets me know you are reading my story. (especially you, the person who always reads but never ever tells me you do. Yes, you. Hello.)


	16. Littlest of all Evils

**Author's note: **You are all wonderful and I love you. All the reviews make my days so much much better!

* * *

**Chapter 16: Littlest of all Evils**

* * *

_Three days ago_

John lied awake at night, the sound of John the Hedgehog's running wheel ringing in his ears.

_He's exercising. It's good. He's fit. _It was not easy to stay concentrated on the pet's workout benefits, however, and John's mind drifted back to the place which he did his best to avoid.

Last night, he had a dream about Sherlock.

It was not consistent, as most dreams weren't – bits of unrelated things would often swoop into the dream, such as unpaid bills or the live mealworms that the hedgehog loved; the dream was very vivid and surreal.

Sherlock was sitting on the edge on a sandbox, in his suit and coat, crying large tears that travelled down his pale cheeks and dripped on the ground, clenching his scraped knee. The skin was bruised and pink, small drops of blood were running down his leg – nothing more than a child's injury, but he sobbed violently, as though the pain had been unbearable. There were kids in the sandbox, but neither had turned to look at the adult, who simply kept on sitting there, shoulders shaking, an embodiment of hopelessness and sorrow. John took a few steps forward, then few more – but the sandbox did not seem to be closer. He ran towards it, but nothing changed – John could only watch, for what it seem to be hours, from afar – as Sherlock continued to cry, the blood flow increasing, colouring the sand in deep crimson.

It did not stop, and nothing changed, but the blood – it filled the sandbox, like a pool of red, and the kids were all soaking in it, but they continued to play, and Sherlock continued to cry – cry like he had lost everything, and could do nothing but shed tears, endlessly falling down and drenching his clothes.

As John saw the blood fill the sandbox to the brink and spill over, a stream running closer to his feet, the whole scene turned and swirled, and suddenly, he was in another room – small, unrecognisable.

Sherlock was sprawled on a chair, naked, the crooks on his elbows dotted by needles, eyes open, but no longer seeing – he was dead. John took a few steps forward, closing his eyelids, feeling the skin cold under his fingertips. He stared at the corpse, slipping out of the dream, feeling his word shaking with some internal force. When he felt the soft pillow underneath his cheek, and opened his eyes to the darkness of his bedroom, he realised he was sobbing dryly, the image of Sherlock's dead body motionless on the chair like a piece of meat still very vivid in his mind. He sat up, and grabbed his phone, shaking fingers barely able to type a short message.

_Are you okay? –JW_

As the dream began to fade, he could no longer press send. He typed in another message and another – but found that there was no excuse for him to text Sherlock after he had cut ties with him. They all went to the drafts folder, and John fell back to his bed, clenching the phone in his hand as though it somehow brought him closer to the man so far away.

Mycroft called him the next day, and John was almost thinking of never picking up, but his curiosity got the better of him. The conversation was brief – Mycroft in no way indicated that he knew of what transpired between his brother and John, although the doctor could bet his money that he did; Mycroft gave John the address and date of Sherlock's speech, giving no arguments of why John should, or should not go. It was just that – a few digits and words on a piece of paper next to John's bed.

He took it in his hand again, unable to sleep. Did this mean he was doing okay, without John? How could he be sure?

He would go, and see him talk, John decided. And if he was okay, then John would be rid of the guilty feeling, biting on him every time he would be left alone. If he was okay, then John could be okay once again too.

* * *

_Present day_

"That was – I did not understand a word- but it sounded brilliant." John said, awkwardly advancing into the room. Sherlock clasped his hands together behind his back and straightened up – a stance of confidence, but also somehow hostile. John swallowed audibly.

The doctor should have not come into the room Sherlock had disappeared in after his speech – he should have left, went home and called to say Sherlock was in need of a new doctor. Because he was _fine_. He was brilliant, his speech was sharp, and even a few jokes had slipped through his lips, rewarded with chuckles from the audience.

He was _fine_.

And yet, as he said his first sentences and his eyes met John's, that was the moment when the doctor realised he won't be leaving so easily. He looked at John, and something in his gaze faltered, showing something human and vulnerable; and then, he stopped speaking, for a second, a second of silence that went straight to John's heart. Was it anger, surprise, pain? Was he happy to see him? Did he wish John wasn't there? John did not know. But every time their eyes would meet again, John had less and less will to leave after it was over – and by the time it ended he could do nothing more than to follow Sherlock, follow him into the small adjacent room, just to talk, just to know what his look had meant.

"Yes, thank you." Sherlock replied coldly, walking over to his desk and turning away from John.

"I uh… Mycroft phoned me. I hope you get all the financing you need." John continued to speak, but nothing in Sherlock's expression indicated he still recognised John was there. "Can we talk?" he asked, taking a few steps closer.

Sherlock turned around, his brows furrowed.

"John." he began, as though another speech was about to take place. "I appreciate you coming here, despite the fact that you are useless when it comes to science, or anything logical, really. I don't think your small brain could handle the complexity of the subject either way – but I appreciate your effort."

John squinted his eyes. "Is that… supposed to be a compliment?"

Sherlock made a confused face.

"Never mind." John shook his head.

"I made you coffee." Sherlock said, passing John a large cup from an awkwardly far distance. John stepped forward and took it, hesitantly.

"Thanks." he said cautiously looking at the dark liquid. "Is there sugar in it?"

"You don't take sugar." Sherlock replied, like it was the most obvious fact ever.

"It's not like you to remember." John took a sip.

It was drinkable.

_Barely_, but John decided not to point it out. It was a very unusual thing for Sherlock to do, and even if the previous remark made John feel insulted, he did realise it wasn't meant to be this way – Sherlock simply didn't really know any better. He was horrible at this, and looked incredibly uncomfortable – he watched, without blinking, as John drank, like waiting to put a check mark next to a step in some kind of plan.

"Good." he assessed, after John put the empty cup down.

There was an awkward silence.

"I would like it if you were my doctor, John." Sherlock said, as though every word caused him pain. The doctor could practically smell his hate for sentiment.

"I… Can't." John looked at his feet. "Not after the way I acted."

"I don't mind."

"You… Look, it was simply unprofessional. _I_ was unprofessional. A real shitty doctor, Sherlock, and I'm sorry."

"You're an idiot, John. Most people are, but you _especially_." Sherlock waved his hands in the air, frustrated. "I don't want anyone else to be my doctor. Even if someone else takes your place I will do everything in my power to have them gone, and you don't know the extent of the actions I am willing to take. I could ruin their lives. You know I can, and you _know_ I wouldn't care."

"Threatening me? Real classy." John scoffed.

"Not you. But you care for them."

"You little prick." John hissed.

Sherlock shrugged. "Why don't you leave your assumptions about size aside until you have some empirical evidence on my prick?"

John cleared his throat. "I could punch you in the face right now." his worry had turned into anger in a matter of minutes, and every corner of his mind now cursed itself for even coming here in the first place. Of course, it was _Sherlock_ he was talking to, what was he expecting, hugs?

"So what do you say?"

"Are you fucking kidding me right now?"

"Let's play this out logically, shall we John? Since you became my doctor I have gotten out of depression, am more sociable than ever, I got my job back and, soon, will be moving out of Mycroft's home. Whether or not that is all actually true and whether it was all actually all your merit, these are the facts one could gather, tracking the progress of the past month. Whether your methods were professional or not, is a piece of trivia compared to this. The fact that you hadn't told anyone or gotten me a replacement yet also shows that you are reluctant to do so. So why not continue?"

"Because it's wrong."

"According to rules made by some small minded idiots?" Sherlock shook his head sarcastically. "It's a decision between following a few sentences written on some piece of paper and helping someone. We both know where your loyalties lay, John. You'll come back to me."

"_If_ I had actually helped you." John retorted. "Yes, it looks like I have, but I am practically your play mate, and not someone who's actually helping you. Look, I've been gone all week and you're better than ever!"

"John." Sherlock looked away for a moment. "You _have_." he sighed, looking hopeless. "Don't make me talk about this."

"Talk." John insisted.

"I consider you my friend. You're not half the clever man I-" noticing John's facial expression, he stopped mid-sentence. "My point being. I don't like doctors and I don't like you being my doctor, but it is the littlest of all evils."

"Really flattering." John assessed sardonically.

"If I'm forced to be with and talk to someone three times a week, I'd rather it be you, out of all people."

"I-"

"Oh he's back!" The door opened and Moriarty walked in, glowing with malicious happiness. "I want one of those too." he walked over to where the two men were standing, looking back and forth from Sherlock to John. "What are we talking about here?"

"Get out." Sherlock said, his voice dropping an octave and motioned to the door.

"Oh." Moriarty looked as though something clicked in his head. "Is this an emotional moment for you guys? You need some privacy?"

He looked at John, much like a person looks at a small puppy. "Aww. Such a cute lovable face, wouldn't you say, Sherlock? Yes you would." He grinned and bit his lip. "Oops. Silly me."

Sherlock's face drained of all colour.

Jim looked back at John, finding him confused, staring at Sherlock with raised brows. What was Moriarty going on about? Sherlock looked as though he had turned into a very realistic statue, not even equipped to blink with its long eyelashes – he was completely immobilised by Jim's words, meaning of which John did not entirely understand.

"Ah, I see it now." Jim stated in high pitched voice and took a step towards John.

Everything after that happened really quickly.

Moriarty grabbed John's face and landed a big, wet kiss on his lips, too fast for John to react, sending him right into shock; he pulled away, victoriously beaming at Sherlock

"First!" he said, spitefully and humourlessly, eyes radiating with cleverness, knowing exactly what impact the act would have; Sherlock stared, stunned for a few seconds, before John's mind unfroze. As the doctor slowly began realizing what had just happened to him he did the only thing he saw fitting - he pulled in Moriarty by the collar of his shirt with his right hand and upper-cut him with the left, with every bit of anger he had accumulated from the previous conversation.

Moriarty stumbled backwards, holding onto his face, eyes alive with madness – dashed forwards without pausing, and, using his height as an advantage, went straight for John's nose and teeth.

John, who was at a disadvantage fighting Moriarty, had a short list of options. He had been in many fights in his life, but none with reasons such as this – it was absolutely absurd and unbelievable, but it was very real, and he had to think very fast - as adrenaline rushed through his bloodstream, he had to act quick since trying to block and counter hits from a taller opponent was not wise. John decided to duck just before Moriarty could hit him and attempt to go low and aim for his kidneys. But Moriarty proved too quick - he countered with a devastating knee to the face.

The doctor knew he was at a disadvantage, but Moriarty didn't – blinded by his cockiness he didn't see it coming – John grabbed the empty coffee cup and used it to hit Jim straight in the cranium.

"God!" Moriarty exclaimed, not unconscious, but evidently disorientated. John stood up from the cocktail of sweat, testosterone, blood and coffee. "I'm leaving." he stated, dashing out of the room.

* * *

"John."

John heard Sherlock's voice behind his back, and he finally stopped walking without a destination. He was outside the building, around the corner, breathing heavily and trying to keep his emotions in check. His heart was still beating heavily in his chest, while his mind tried to piece together the things that happened to suddenly, he could barely believe they were real.

"Is he okay?" John asked, turning around, holding his palm to the side of his face. He could feel the warmth of blood flowing from his nose as well as the taste of it in his mouth.

"He's fine." Sherlock shrugged it off. "John, I want to inquire again about what we discussed prev-"

"Oh my God, Sherlock, I just got into a fight with your partner, _I hit his head with a cup_-"

"He's fine." Sherlock said again, with indifference. "Now, about the-"

"What the _hell_ is wrong with me, Jesus… What the _FUCK_ is wrong with HIM?" John shook his head. "Why can't anything go fucking right for fucking once? What the… fuck…" He glared at Sherlock. "Did that actually happen?"

"Mm yes."

"My whole… Life is just… I don't even know anymore." John shook his head.

Sherlock walked closer and patted John on the back with short and awkward spasmodic taps.

"I think he enjoyed it, so don't worry about his pain. Are you hurt?" He sounded almost humanly concerned, but John ignored it.

"Fuck. This was a new shirt."

"I hope it doesn't wash out, salmon is not your colour." Sherlock noted.

"You cock." John pushed his hand away, but couldn't withhold a smile. "So what, I'm not looking at assault charges?"

"Why are you fixating on him? Will you be my doctor, or not?" Sherlock looked at John as though he was a child, toying around instead of doing work.

John sighed, glaring at Sherlock.

"You can completely ignore that, which doesn't concern you, can't you?" he scoffed. "There's a fucking fight that happened right _there_ and you're… ugh…" He pulled out a napkin from his pocket and whipped the blood from his lip. "If I'm to be your doctor. IF-" he shook his finger in front of Sherlock's face. "IF we do this, you have to be a patient, do you understand? You can't go pulling me to bars or making inappropriate comments about certain _aspects_-"

Sherlock smirked.

"-and you certainly have to let me help you." he looked at the blood on the napkin and frowned.

"I do let you help me."

"Oh f-. Okay. Fine. We can try, yes? For your sake." John didn't look as though he believed what he was saying. He felt given up and tired, and not in a mood for further discussions. "This is crazy, even for him, right?"

"I've had worse." Sherlock emotionlessly said. "I will do… my _best_." His tone was something between mocking and impatient.

John saw a cab and hailed it. "I'm going home. I'll call you and we'll talk about this. If I keep standing here I might bleed to death."

"Text me, I prefer to text."

"Go back to your investors." John just said, climbing into the cab with his head tilted upwards.

* * *

**Author's note: **Moriarty is clever, isn't he? Do you see what he did there?

**Next chapter: **Most people have Chickenpox when they are children. Sherlock is not one of those people.


	17. Infected

**Author's note:** I just can't write things nice and short, can I? This will soon be the longest thing I've ever written.

Big thanks to my _the_rapist friend for all the weird ideas we come up with together. (you know who you are)

Anyway, enjoy!

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**Chapter 17: Infected**

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John arrived at 221B Baker Street, an apartment building next to a café called Speedy's in the centre of London – an expensive looking home for which Molly had given him the address.

She called him, voice scared, explaining how Sherlock had almost fainted today at work, but refused any help from her or anyone else – John suggested he would visit the insufferable man, and Molly thanked him whole heartedly, before telling John that Sherlock had finally moved out of Mycroft's. She was sure Sherlock had the Chickenpox - John went to the pharmacy and got what he needed and then immediately took a cab to the new address.

Most people had Chickenpox as children – it was a simple enough infection, one that a person normally had only once in their lives, and gaining immunity for it afterwards. A lot of people let their children catch it up purpose, seeing as the infection was much easier on kids than it were on teenagers or adults. The symptoms were rashes (spots, appearing in crops), sore throat, coughing, feeling sick and high temperature.

In cases of complications, the infection, if untreated, could result from skin scarring to death – and while the chance for the latter was low (just around 5 per cent), John had not the heart to let Sherlock deal with it alone. Knowing how careless he was, there was a chance for anything to happen.

This was important, even if John was not that kind of doctor. Anyone would know better than Sherlock. _He is like a child_, John thought to himself.

He knocked on the door with the heavy knocker provided – half of a minute later the door was opened by an elderly woman in her seventies.

"Uh… hello, I am looking for Sherlock Holmes?"

"Hello dear." she smiled and let John inside. They introduced themselves and John learned that the landlady's name was Mrs Hudson.

"His flat is upstairs…"

"It's quite close to the centre, the flat I mean." John assessed, trying to make small talk.

"Oh, I give him discount. I've known him since he was a little boy. Is there something wrong with him?"

"He has the chickenpox, I was told."

"Oh, poor thing. I don't think he will let you in, he won't even let me bring the tea. I used to be his babysitter, you know? Such a strange little boy…"

"Oh. He never mentioned you." John was surprised to hear it.

"You know him then?"

"Yes I'm actually… Not that kind of doctor. I'm his… friend. And he _will_ let me in." he sounded determined.

"A friend, really?" Mrs Hudson smiled warmly. "He never really cared for friends, as much as I remember. Wait dear, if he does let you in, I've got some soup and pie, would you take it upstairs?"

"Yes, okay." John agreed, following her into the kitchen on the first floor. "Sherlock used to live here before… before, you know?"

"No." she replied. "I had a previous tenant, but he moved so I offered Sherlock the flat with a discount. I haven't seen him in years, but I hear things… of course."

"It's good for him to have his own place, I think. He doesn't get along with Mycroft."

"Oh, you should have seen them as boys! Always fighting." she smiled nostalgically. "You've been friends long, Sherlock and you?"

"Not very." John told her, as she passed him the pot and plate with the food. "Thank you."

"He doesn't eat a lot. All skin and bones…" she mumbled. "Are you going to stay the night?"

"I don't know how bad he's feeling. Obviously, the hospital's not an option for him…" John sighed.

"I should make some more tea…" she decided. "Wait, I'll boil the kettle and we'll go upstairs together, what do you think?"

"Okay." John agreed, sitting down on one of the chairs.

"I'm glad someone's here for him. He's always been so lonely."

"Not the easiest man to be friends with." John smiled briefly.

"This is a nice flat, you'll see. Not too costly, the rent, if you split it in half." Mrs Hudson noted.

"It's two-bedroom?" John asked, staring at the cat figurine on the table.

"Oh don't worry, dear." she said, ambiguously.

"I'm just a friend of Sherlock's." John quickly said, as they both stood up. She smiled at him again and shook her head as though he needn't bother making excuses.

They climbed up creaky wooden stairs, and Mrs Hudson knocked on the door.

"Go away, Mrs Hudson." they heard Sherlock's deep voice from the inside of the flat.

"It's John. Open the damn door." the doctor demanded. Few seconds later, the door flew open, revealing a dishevelled man in a dark dressing gown, pink eyes and a few spots on his face. He looked dizzy.

"John." he nodded and the doctor barely had the time to put the food aside as Sherlock limply fell on him with all his weight, spreading his arms wide and hanging himself on John's neck. "I'm dying John."

"You've just got the chickenpox, you're not _dying_." John grumbled, barely able to stand, now that Sherlock was wrapped around him and given up on supporting himself. "Stand up, you're damn heavy."

"Help me John." Sherlock moaned, as though all hope in the world had been gone and everything was falling apart, and buried his face in John's shoulder.

This was definitely the most physical contact John has received from Sherlock but the situation was so utterly uncomfortable, all of his efforts were directed to somehow changing it. Sherlock felt very hot against him, and even though his reaction was overdramatized, the doctor knew he must be very sick. John placed his hands below Sherlock's armpits and, with all his strength, dragged him towards the sofa by the wall, like a life-size doll with no batteries.

He practically tossed Sherlock on the sofa, for a second terrified of accidentally banging Sherlock's head against something, but the man landed safely and softly, doing nothing but glaring at John with glassy eyes.

"I'm cold." He complained petulantly.

He was in his pyjamas and dressing gown, barefoot, cheeks pink – a dash of crimson on the masterfully sculpted alabaster, seemingly dazed and disorientated.

"I put the tea on the table." Mrs Hudson said from behind, having watched the whole dragging sequence. "If you need anything else, give me a shout."

"We won't." Sherlock retorted, in a voice that would have been funny if his health was not so greatly at risk.

"Take care of him, dear." She smiled at John again, before leaving the flat.

Only now, John looked around.

The flat consisted of a bedroom, a single large airy sitting-room, cluttered with even more, even larger mountains of things, illuminated by two broad windows, and an adjacent kitchen, that seem to have been used, instead, as a laboratory. It was a very nice flat – with tall ceiling, cheerfully furnished and decorated – apart from a skull that sat above the fireplace, raising questions John was unwilling to ask at a time. Everything had that luxury feel about it – even if it was incredibly messy.

"It's a nice place." John said.

"Who cares? I'm dying."

"Oh for f- You'll be fine. I'm here and I've got medicine for you." John sat on the leather sofa next to Sherlock.

"I can't think, John. I can't use my mind, which is the only thing that matters, the rest is transport. Is that how most people feel? So empty in their heads…" he crawled into a ball and wailed.

John brushed Sherlock's curls away from his forehead and pressed his palm against his skin. Sherlock winced, but then leaned in, looking at John with big big eyes. He looked utterly confused about what was happening.

"God, you're hot."

Sherlock managed a smile. "I'm glad you think that way."

"This is not the time for your antics, you git." John smiled lovingly, running his fingers against Sherlock's cheek before catching himself doing it and quickly pulling away. His doctor instincts made him awfully soft when he was near someone so needy and helpless. Especially when it was someone like Sherlock, usually so arrogant and insensitive.

John got his bag and pulled out various items from it, explaining Sherlock what they were for.

"We'll check your temperature, and I will give you some _Paracetamol, _then, you'll have to apply this ointment to any spots you have. You'll have to stay hydrated and sleep a lot."

"Everything hurts." Sherlock moaned.

"Yes, I know. _Paracetamol_ will help with the pain. Have you eaten? You can't take it on empty stomach."

"I don't _want to_ eat."

"Sherlock… Stop being such a 12-year-old. You're a grown man, you know how this goes."

"I can't think. I can't do anything. I didn't know it would be like this, John, do something."

"I will. Okay." John passed him an old mercury thermometer, but Sherlock just looked at it like it was the vilest thing known to man.

"Put it in your armpit." John instructed.

Sherlock glared. "Mercury is dangerous."

John sighed. "Not unless you break the damn thing."

The patient still wouldn't listen.

"Put it in your armpit or I'll put it in your rectum."

Mumbling, Sherlock finally took the thermometer and slid it under his pyjama top.

"Good. Now hold it for about seven minutes." John smiled with support but Sherlock made a face. "How long has this been going on?"

"Ugh."

"Sherlock."

"Ughhhh."

"Well, Molly called today and she wouldn't have waited so… I'm guessing this is the third day – the first two aren't usually so awful." John tried to deduce.

"I'm dying, John."

"For the last time… You're not. Shush. Don't be so dramatic."

Sherlock closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around self.

John stood up and headed towards Sherlock's bedroom, in search for some blankets. The door on the far end of the corridor lead to a small, uncluttered room; there was a double bed in the middle, a large wardrobe by the wall and a small shelf, with only a few items placed on it.

There was nothing but a single pillow and duvet on the bed which was unmade – John could see Sherlock had slept slightly sideways. He decided to look into the wardrobe, to see if he could find a blanket there, feeling slightly guilty as his curiosity was getting the better of him. Sherlock had probably looked around John's bedroom, it was not a crime if John did the same…

The lack of objects was really surprising – while the kitchen and living room was cluttered to the brink, his bedroom could almost be a hotel room – except for the large table of elements he had on the wall, possibly his choice of décor (John was almost sure Sherlock had it memorised). Perhaps, he did not spend much time here? John glanced at the night stand, only to find it disappointingly empty. There was a drawer. The doctor knew well that bed-side drawers were usually the places to keep more private, intimate things. He turned away from it, and glanced at the shelf again.

There was a photo frame that has been knocked down so that one couldn't see what it was displaying; there were a few random souvenirs and other trivial items of no importance, and a layer of dust. The frame piqued John's curiosity, but he was somehow certain Sherlock could have known if he had looked. He turned to the wardrobe again and opened the doors to the hanging clothes section.

It was exactly what John had expected – suits, lots of them. Some of them were still with tags, some were fresh out of dry cleaning; everything was strangely tidy – John looked at the bottom of the compartment and found a single moss coloured blanket that didn't seem to be used for a long time. He took it out and went for the door.

Then, he stopped.

He looked at the bedside table.

John opened the drawer easily – there was no lock. He was practically expecting it to be empty, just like the most of the bedroom was – but it was not. There were only two things in that drawer - it was a small bottle of silicon based liquid and a phallic shaped toy.

This was not something John should have seen. Regret and guilt came over him immediately. And – something else, something resulting in even _more_ guilt. Mental images began to form in his head without warning – each more explicit than the last.

**No. No no no**. John tried to shake the thoughts out of his mind but it was too shocking for him to simply move on. Is that how Sherlock liked it? John considered the girth and could do not much else but quickly compare.

"The blanket is at the bottom of the wardrobe!" He heard Sherlock yell from the living room and jumped, startled. Even though Sherlock had no way of knowing what John had his eyes on at this very moment, John felt as though caught red handed. He closed the drawer quickly, mustering all the willpower he had to think of something – anything else. He looked at the photo frame, but did not touch it.

He made a terrible mistake.

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"Here." John passed Sherlock the blanket, when he finally dared to return to the living room.

"Thank you." Sherlock took it, but placed it on his lap and squinted his eyes. "You know I only have one drawer in that room."

"Uhh… you must have, yeah."

"When you're trying to be inconspicuous, keep in mind that even ordinary sounds can speak of your exact actions, if there's only one ordinary object of such in the area."

_Oh no. No._

"Thirty nine." Sherlock then said.

"What?"

"Thirty-nine Celsius. Is that bad?"

And only then, John's thoughts truly jumped elsewhere.

"Oh Jesus that's a lot. Hang on, I'll get you a glass of water and you'll take the meds."

Neither brought up the drawer topic again.

It took some convincing before Sherlock finally took the medication. He was behaving so petulantly, John could not believe it was coming from a thirty-seven year old man with a Nobel Prize. It was as though he would not admit he was sick, and as though he was dying _at the same time_.

"You should feel warmer as your temperature decreases. Listen, if it gets worse I might need to take you to a hospital and I-"

"_Uuhhhh_"

"I know you don't want that, but this is a serious infection for a man your age…"

"No, John."

"We'll see. I'm not saying we have to do it. If we can – if _I _can - keep it under control. You don't have too many spots but some people just don't – it doesn't mean your case is mild."

Sherlock seemed to have drifted away with his thoughts – he was looking straight at the wall, not a quail of an eyelash to indicate he still recognised John was there.

"Strip." John said.

Sherlock turned around, the expression on his face simply… shocked.

"For ointment application." John rolled his irises to the corner of his widened eyes, suddenly well aware of his bad choice of words and tone of voice. Sherlock's eyebrows settled into their regular position.

"Oh."

He slid out of his clothes without much complaining, until he was in nothing but tight, silk boxer briefs that outlined the contents they protected rather perfectly – John tried not to look, tried very hard. When Sherlock sat down on the sofa again, John relaxed. Since when was this a problem? He was a doctor, _for fuck's sake_. He had women patients sitting in front of him with massive cleavage and managed to not get distracted from his work. How was this different? In fact, how was this so damn irresistible?

"Okay." Sherlock agreed, although John had no idea what he was agreeing to.

John finally looked to his right, where Sherlock was sitting almost naked now, sideways and looking away, somewhere at his work desk.

He was very skinny – John could count every vertebra, every rib. There were some light hair on his arms and chest, and a thin trail from his belly button that followed down his abdomen. His shoulders were wide, collar bones sharp. His feet were well groomed and large; his long legs that went on forever were covered in light fuzz that made them seem even paler – he looked rather frail, especially now that his skin had been marked in a few places with the infection's spots – but somehow, still had an aristocratic feeling about him, like an aura of a higher caste.

_He's waiting_, John realised.

Sighing, John squeezed some ointment on his fingertips, and after waiting for it to warm, gently rubbed the first spot he found on Sherlock's lower back. His naked skin burned hot against John's touch, and for a moment, the doctor began to worry about the hospital being a necessity after all. Right afterwards, his thoughts drifted back to the scorching sensation and the few, dark birthmarks on Sherlock's shoulder that he kept his eyes fixed on unconsciously.

Sherlock kept still and silent as John continued, looking directly in front of himself, hands resting on his own lap. When the doctor asked for him to turn around, he did so quickly, turning now to face John.

He seemed very stiff, but John dismissed it as his general dislike of other's touch. As he swallowed audibly, his Adam's apple moved under the skin, the neck's tendons tensing for a second before settling into place.

John took care of most of the spots he could reach – there were almost none on his legs or arms – before John finally went for the chest area, causing Sherlock to turn directly towards him, and their eyes meet involuntarily.

John rubbed a spot on Sherlock's chest and the scientist flinched. Sherlock's heart began to race – suddenly, as though adrenaline had shot through it – every beat painfully close to the next, drumming against John's fingertips, two pairs of valves closing inside the chambers of Sherlock's heart, _lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub._ His pupils dilated, as though drenched in complete, all-swallowing darkness. John dropped his gaze and pulled his fingers away, watching Sherlock's chest rise and fall as he breathed in and out, frozen in spot as though unable to move.

"All… done." John said, feeling his own heart suddenly race out of pure bewilderment. _He's a patient,_ he had to remind himself_. An ill patient, John_. _A male patient_. But no matter how many times he repeated 'patient' in his head, all he could think of was at it was his friend, right there next to him, in nothing but those thin thin boxer briefs and eyes consumed by those giant black pupils, soft lips parted…

There was a knock on the door.

"Sherlock, it's Lestrade, you there?"

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**Author's note: **here's to ending the chapter with a nice cockblock. Sorry, folks : D Sherlock's chikenpox adventures continue in the next chapter, where we also meet Lestrade, who is obviously too, a slightly different guy in this alternate universe.

**Hint for next chapter**: John _did_ bring an overnight bag.

Once again, if you like reading, leave reviews. I don't mean to sound whiny, but my motivation to write depends on them heavily.


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